


Runner

by Jessepinwheel



Category: The LEGO Movie (2014)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And probably still more positively portrayed than he is in canon, Bad Cop's alive this time, Bad Decisions, Betrayal, Check Chapter Notes, Gen, Good Cop POV, Muteness, Pre-Canon, Secrets, Time Travel, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 11:19:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 85,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13386726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jessepinwheel/pseuds/Jessepinwheel
Summary: Bad Cop died two years ago in Business's Artifact Chamber. Good Cop survived that, and everything that followed.Now, he's been sent back to a year before Taco Tuesday, with no warning, no help, and no plan.Bad Cop's alive again, and there's not a lot Good Cop won't do to keep it that way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In plastic molding, the runner is the channel that connects the sprue, where plastic enters, to each of the parts in the mold. Thus, when the part is finished, the runner will often connect many parts together. The runner must be cut off in post-processing.
> 
> Hello again! It's the spin-off/sequel to [Parting Line](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11364300/chapters/25439217) that nobody asked for, in which Good Cop gets to go back in time, because there's no time travel stories in the Lego Movie fandom as far as I'm aware. I started this story back in December of 2016, which you might recognize as quite a long time before I actually finished Parting Line. I actually shotgunned the last 35k or so in the last month, because I really just wanted to get this project finished and out of the way so I can work on some new exciting projects (not that this isn't exciting).
> 
> Full disclosure, if you thought Parting Line was a rough story, Runner is going to be a real emotional roller coaster, because where Parting Line was about recovery and consequences, Runner is about fighting and making sacrifices. Some parts of this story are going to get really dark.
> 
> You don't have to have read Parting Line to read this story, though I would recommend it since there are multiple references to Parting Line in this story. But if you haven't, don't worry, you won't miss anything.

0.

In Good Cop's defense, it's the wizard's fault.

The encounter goes something like this:

There's a gang of wizards going around, terrorizing the streets of Bricksburg. Their MO is using magic, mostly teleportation spells, to steal goods and make a clean getaway.

Now, it's only been a couple of years since Taco Tuesday, and as such, only a couple of years since Good Cop's gotten back into the 'normal' police schtick. But chasing down and hunting people? He's quite good at that, if he could be so bold to say so.

So he sprints down the streets, chasing one of the wizards--the _head_ wizard, if his intel is correct--after a particularly large bank heist, taking shortcuts through back alleys and over fences until he gets close enough to tackle the wizard to the ground.

They go down together, roll once or twice and the wizard throws Good Cop off in a massive heave. Good Cop stumbles and slides to a stop.

Now, Good Cop, in his various interactions with Master Builders, has developed a healthy respect for magic, and he is reasonably concerned about the glowing blue haze around the wizard's hands. But at the same time, he knows that wizards generally _don't_ have a healthy respect for a well-placed fist, so on balance, Good Cop thinks that his odds are more than even.

So, when the wizard strikes, Good Cop steps forward instead of back, swinging as he ducks below the wizard's wild attacks.

Good Cop's fist solidly connects with the wizard's throat, and the wizard gags while attempting to say something that sounds extremely rude. Good Cop reaches to grab the wizard by the collar, but the wizard, in his flailing, manages to hit Good Cop directly in the stomach with a glowing blue hand and--

There's a flash, something like a shock wave, and, as Good Cop finds himself flying backwards, a burning beneath his skin that makes him think he may have made a fundamental miscalculation.

There's the distinct feeling of cold shock across his skin, and tearing _through_ something, then just as his vision starts to clear--

He crashes into a pile of boxes.

A pile of boxes in a completely different alleyway, and judging by the sun, a completely different _hour_ as well.

He groans and slowly gets to his feet, trying to reorient himself through the massive headache he's suddenly acquired. It feels like there's fire under his skin and ice in his bones, and the main thing he thinks is that wizards are jerks.

He looks back at the boxes he's landed in and notices they're full of newspapers. Newspapers that are dated almost exactly a full year _before_ Taco Tuesday.

"Okay," he says. "This...might be bad."

* * *

1.

It takes less than an hour to confirm that it is, in fact, about a year before Taco Tuesday. Newspapers aside, the city layout is how it was before Business broke it, there are no Master Builders to be seen, and Business's extensive propaganda is in full force. Apparently, moving through space is just a hop, skip, and a jump--or more appropriately a well-timed punch to the stomach--away from moving through time.

Suffice to say, this is not what Good Cop thought he'd be doing today.

Okay, whatever. Time travel. He can roll with it.

He sits on an old fruit crate in an alleyway and takes a moment to think about what he needs to do. Getting home, for example, seems like a good place to start. He'll probably have to track down that jerk wizard or someone else who has space-time magic (which might be difficult, because it can't be _that_ common, can it?) and convince them that throwing him back into the timestream or whatever it's called is a good idea.

And speaking of good ideas, he could really use some headache medicine.

He gets up, stretches, and walks into the street. He's in the eastern outskirts of town, which are noticeably slummier than they will be in three years' time. But still, the street layouts are very much the same, and it doesn't take too much wandering to find a convenience store.

Buying medication goes about as well as can be expected, until he gets to the register and the shop owner gives him some major side-eye.

"Good Cop," she says in a cautiously neutral tone. "What are you doing here?"

Good Cop blinks, because he's not sure what he did to offend this person. He's sure he's never met her before, now or in the future. "I'm...buying ibuprofen?"

The shop owner gives him a critical look that clearly articulates how much she believes him, then says, "Whoever you're looking for, they're not here."

Good Cop stares at her blankly. "Right," he replies. "That's because I'm not looking for anyone. I'd like to buy this, please."

The shop owner scowls, but takes Good Cop's money and rings up the purchase. "Have a nice day," she says, much in the tone that someone would use to say "I have a gun in the back room."

Good Cop smiles, takes the medication, then gets out of the convenience store.

It's not until maybe twenty minutes later, after he's dry swallowed a tablet and his headache's subsided to the level where he can think straight that he remembers that the eastern districts is where Master Builders frequently kept their hideouts, and that he is currently wearing his full uniform, helmet included.

Oh, cranberries, he thinks.

This whole time travel thing might be more complicated than he originally thought.

* * *

2.

The first thought Good Cop has: he needs people to not recognize him as Good Cop or Bad Cop. In this time, well into Business's (Lord Business, technically, but Good Cop would rather walk barefoot over broken glass than address Business as an authority again) reign, Bad Cop is not exactly an inconspicuous figure. No matter how long Good Cop's hair is now or how different of a color his glasses are, his face has barely changed and any resistance member worth their salt, Master Builders included, will recognize him if they get a good enough look. No matter what he decides to do about this time travel kerfuffle, the last thing he needs is for the actual Bad Cop to hear about someone running around impersonating him or for Business to spot him on his cameras and try to bring him in for questioning...or something even less pleasant.

The second thought Good Cop has: crickets in a tin, Bad Cop is _alive._

That's...that takes a little while to process.

He's still processing it when he finds an abandoned apartment complex to sleep in for the night. It's really not an ideal situation, because the building is old and smells faintly of mildew and has no electricity, but more pleasant options, like a cheap hotel, aren't exactly viable when his resources are limited to the clothes on his back and the contents of his pockets. Even if he has enough cash for emergencies (which he does, thank goodness for Ma teaching him the value of cold, hard cash), he has to make it last an unknown amount of time until he finds a source of income, because as much as he'd like to find a time wizard _right now,_ he doesn't exactly have anywhere to start looking.

(He does, of course, have the key to his apartment, and it's more tempting than it should be. It's _assuredly_ empty, considering he barely ever spent time at home when he was working for Business, but he can't risk getting caught on camera, and somehow he thinks that literally breaking into Bad Cop's apartment might not be a great idea.)

So: abandoned apartment complex in the slummy side of Bricksburg. It's a roof over his head, and it'll do for tonight.

He leans against one of the walls and sighs. He doesn't want to think about Bad Cop right now, because that way lies a Pandora's box full of entangled thoughts and incomprehensible dreams and he's honestly got bigger concerns right now.

After all, he won't be able to see Bad Cop if something happens to him first.

So for now, he takes off his jacket, pulls out his multitool, and starts to painstakingly remove the embroidered police badge.

Starting tomorrow, he can't be Good Cop anymore.

* * *

3.

It's fortunate that Good Cop is not the sort to be very attached to things.

Things such as, to pick some completely random examples, his apartment, job, and entire time period. Friends as well, he supposes, seeing how, even though he's grown what he might _cautiously_ call close with Emmet and his group, the only friend he'd have a real issue never talking to again has already been dead for two years.

He's not _over_ Bad Cop's death, and he probably never will be, but the point is that this time travel business isn't much of a shift from the status quo in that respect.

So he takes the whole time displacement in stride and busies himself with everyday concerns like money, food, and perhaps just as urgent, his identity.

He stays in the eastern districts, because besides being one of the places where Business's obsessive levels of surveillance are limited (by virtue of poor infrastructure and Master Builders constantly destroying the cameras), it's also a place where Good Cop can live without anyone asking questions.

He may be the only person who's been thrown backwards in time, but he's certainly _not_ the only one with no name, no papers, and no past.

Keeping his identity under wraps isn't too bad. He's a private person to begin with, so he's not inclined to talk about himself anyways. He leaves his hair as is, tied back into a ponytail where it's neatly out of the way, then pawns off his motorcycle helmet and buys a snug wool flat cap and a pack of surgical face masks to wear instead. He'll admit it's not the most inspired disguise, but it's good enough that no one seems to have made the connection.

(It's perhaps fortunate, in this particular case, that he didn't get out much in these years. While his own face is somewhat recognizable, almost nobody can recognize Bad Cop's when he's out of uniform and wearing normal glasses. Of course, if Good Cop took his own glasses off, nobody would recognize him, either--but there's no need to go that far. With over half of his face covered, he very much doubts that anyone will recognize him by his _eyes,_ and his vision, while not entirely debilitating, is bad enough.)

He starts introducing himself as Quinn, which is neither his nor Bad Cop's real name--possible future complications aside, he hasn't felt comfortable using his real name for years now--but it's one that sounds 'correct' enough that he can answer to it without feeling strange.

Then, with a not inconsiderable amount of luck and a friendly personality, he manages to convince the owner of a small bakery to hire him.

"I'll be straight with you," Jean, the bakery owner says. "You're right, I can use the help, but business is slow and I can't afford to pay you much. That said, at the very least I can give you some reasonable hours, and you can eat the day-olds, so you won't go hungry. Will that work for you?"

Good Cop nods, and that's the start of his new job.

(Ma used to joke that in another life, Good Cop would make a good baker. He's not sure if it's more or less funny now that it's true.)

Most of his work amounts to measuring out ingredients or cleaning or carrying sacks of flour and sugar and other sorts of things to and from the back room. He handles it well enough, for all that it's been a very long time since he's had to haul fifty pound anythings around. He's never had an issue with manual labor, and Jean is friendly enough.

But _baking,_ oh no. He has nothing against baking, he even enjoys it most of the time, but baking is a precise thing, and a lot of the equipment is run-down or barely functional. Jean must be some sort of miracle worker, because it seems impossible to get anything that is even remotely palatable and soft enough to not break a tooth on.

"It was like this when I bought the place," Jean says when Good Cop brings it up. "Octan put the manufacturer out of business years ago, and I can't afford to get new ovens installed, especially not when they stop working after two years. I mostly work around it, and it's all right."

That's when Good Cop decides to use his not inconsiderable skills with mechanics to take matters into his own hands. Obviously, repairing bakery equipment and fixing Bad Cop's robots aren't _exactly_ the same, and he was always better at circuit work than gross mechanics, but he's got enough experience to fix the temperature sensor and insulation on the oven, replace the stalling motor in one of the mixers by cannibalizing the motor from a broken one, and repair a couple of the leaky steam pipes. He'd do more, but he'd need a soldering iron and some components for that.

"What's this?" Jean asks when Good Cop hands them a large butter croissant. "Where'd this come from?"

"I baked it," Good Cop says.

Jean takes a bite. "Really? Where?"

"Here," Good Cop says. "I fixed the oven."

There's a long pause.

"You _what?"_

The fixed oven and other equipment means, among other things, that the bakery can expand to making pastries and other goods that are a little more sensitive than loaves of bread. Jean is so over the moon the first time Good Cop bakes a batch of perfectly flaky braided danishes with raisins and nuts that they spend seemingly the entire next day making a wide variety of sweets. They're not particularly good at it, but the pastries are edible, and Good Cop can't fault them for enthusiasm.

It also turns out that Jean's miracle touch with bread was not just in getting terrible equipment to work, because their bread jumps in quality by an astounding order of magnitude. For his part, Good Cop bakes pastries like croissants and bear claws and cinnamon rolls that become extremely popular quite fast.

Needless to say, business picks up.

It's something like two weeks after Good Cop starts working that Jean says, "You know, there's a loft upstairs."

Good Cop hums in response. He's aware that there's a ladder up to the attic, but from what he's seen, there's not much up there.

"The roof leaks and none of the wiring works anymore, but at least there's plumbing and heat, and I'm willing to bet it's better than whatever hole you're living in now," Jean says. 

Good Cop stops kneading his pastry dough and glances up at Jean. They look completely serious.

"You can live there if you want," Jean continues. "It's not much, and after everything you're doing to help out...the least I can do is make sure you've got a roof over your head, right?"

"Oh," Good Cop says. He hadn't...expected this at all, especially not for something so small. "You trust me to live here?"

"Quinn," Jean says. "You've turned this place from a garbage dump into something serviceable, you have the key, and you already spend more time here than I do. I've _already_ trusted this place to you, and you've given me no reason not to."

"Ah. I...thank you," Good Cop replies.

So Good Cop moves his belongings--less than a backpack's worth of items--in the next day, and Jean is right, it's leaky and it smells a little off and the lights definitely don't work, but it's nothing a bit of hard work can't fix, and there's heat, a perfectly functional (if dirty) full bathroom, and enough floor space to stretch out.

There's not enough space to bring up a mattress, but he gets a roll-up futon and finally manages to get a night of sleep since getting punted into the past that doesn't hurt his back.

All things considered, this time travel business is going okay.

* * *

4.

Life in the eastern districts is different. It's not the old buildings and dirty streets so much as it's a different atmosphere entirely.

The people who live here aren't just unfortunate--more often, they're people who either can't or won't abide by Business's rules, and the people who actively oppose them, and have suffered for it. It's a nest of fugitives and rebels, the sort Business can't be bothered to properly eliminate, but can't abide living in his perfect dollhouse of a city.

Good Cop has known this for years, but it's different looking from the inside.

These people--so _many_ people--are scared, caught between a secure life under Business they can't stomach and a life in exile, all too aware that the moment Business decides that these parts of the city are too much trouble to deal with, the entire district might be razed to the ground. They're suspicious and secretive, and they viciously defend their information from both the cameras and each other.

Even in the short interactions Good Cop has with customers at the bakery, he sees them speak a language of their own in careful eye contact and surreptitious gestures, because when _living_ is an act of rebellion, there's no telling what will be the last straw, especially when Business has eyes and ears everywhere.

These are the people that he and Bad Cop would arrest and send to Business's cells or, in extreme cases, the melting chamber. On Business's orders, perhaps, but semantics don't undo the damage.

Sometimes Good Cop has to keep himself from staring when he sees familiar faces, faces of people he's personally burned to death or taken as collateral against some of Business's testier opponents. There's something perverse about how Good Cop can see these people--perfect strangers, then and now--and know exactly what it takes to make them scream for mercy without even necessarily knowing their _names._

Good Cop is not a hero--he's never had the disposition for it--and he's most certainly not obligated to protect these people, especially when he's only one person and Bad Cop and Business will only continue to strike harder in their failure. Attacking anything but the root of the problem is just an exercise in futility.

But he's not about to let people die. Once, he may have believed in Business's ideals (though never his methods, he'd never liked those), but those days are over, and now Good Cop has a different battle to fight.

In the dark of the loft above the bakery, he listens to his police radio--a perfect twin of the only radio in all of Bricksburg that can tap into any of Business's frequencies--and hears plans, movements, orders. The code phrases and jargon are familiar in a vaguely nostalgic way, and he writes down dates and locations in a small, worn notebook.

(And perhaps his heart skips a few beats when he hears Bad Cop's voice, but he shoves that down, down, down. He can deal with that _later.)_

A few pages find their way under a high ranking resistance member's door in the middle of the night, and when Bad Cop's forces storm into a hideout to capture a set of Master Builders four days later, they're nowhere to be found.

Good Cop isn't about to put himself out there, not when he's at so much risk himself, but there's more than one way to do the right thing.

* * *

5.

Time passes, and things are okay until they're not.

Which is to say, they're okay until Good Cop finds himself coughing blood into the sink in the dead of night. It doesn't take an expert to know that's a bad sign and it probably says something about his nightmare of a life that the only thing he thinks is that at least he already goes around wearing surgical masks anyways.

When the coughing fit passes, he finds he's not even that surprised. He's not as young as he used to be, and living out in these parts of town is harsh, even before considering he's literally been living in moldy buildings since he got here. It's just his luck that he would acquire some kind of horrible respiratory condition.

Hopefully, his immune system will kick into gear and solve the problem, but considering that he's gotten to the stage where he's coughing up blood, that seems optimistic. The thing is, there's really nothing going for him at this point _except_ optimism. He can't see a doctor, he has no idea what he has, and even if he did, it's not like he can afford the medication, or, if things are much worse than he thinks, surgery.

Good Cop's not scared of death in of itself, but there's something about dying slowly in a time and place that isn't his that's uniquely terrifying.

If he has to die, he really doesn't want to go alone.

* * *

6.

Good Cop's presence does not go unnoticed.

Jean's bakery wasn't particularly busy before Good Cop came along, but it had a regular clientele because the bread was affordable and apparently better than some of the other bakeries in the area.

(Good Cop shudders to think how _their_ equipment is faring.)

So people notice when he starts working there and fixing things up.

"What's with the mask?" a young lady asks him as he weighs a loaf of bread for her. "You sick?"

Good Cop shrugs. He tries to speak as little as possible these days, because it tears his throat up something awful to string more than a few words together at a time, and if he goes any further than that, he runs the risk of another coughing fit.

Somehow, he thinks that coughing blood into his mask would be more alarming than staying mute.

He bags the bread and hands it to the lady, then points to the card taped to the counter. It's a pithy explanation that yes, he is sick, but he's not contagious and flour can aggravate his lungs--the veracity of those statements is debatable, but it's what he and Jean decided to tell the customers, because people will _not_ stop asking why the new person baking pastries is wearing a surgical mask.

(Good Cop's glad he hasn't been fired, but he has to wonder about the ethics of telling people there's no danger when there definitely might be. He keeps his mouth shut, though, and not just for the disease-related reasons. He can't afford to lose the income or the lodging, and at least he's doing everything he can to keep from infecting anyone else.)

"Oh," she says. "I'm sorry to hear that."

Good Cop hands her her change.

Besides that, Jean seems to tell their friends about Good Cop's technical skills, because soon enough, people start coming in to ask if he can fix small gadgets and not so small appliances for some extra cash. Eventually it becomes a big enough thing that Good Cop sets aside a few tables specifically for people trying to get stuff fixed or to sell electronic components.

He's certainly not rich, by any means, but it's enough money to buy food and clothes and blankets. He's been saving up to get a decent hot plate (preferably gas), because as much as he enjoys Jean's bread and other baked foods, he really needs to start eating real food if he wants his health to ever improve.

(Medicine would be good, too, but after two weeks of on-and-off researching, Good Cop still can't figure out what he has and he's not dumb enough to try things at random.)

"I need...a soldering iron. And solder wire," Good Cop tells Jean one day as he's cleaning up after closing. He winces at the sound of his own voice, which is about three parts crackle to one part sound, but there are some things he doesn't know how to say in sign language.

(Jean has been astoundingly accommodating to Good Cop's condition, going so far as to come up with work-related signs so Good Cop can get through his day without tearing his throat up even more than he already has. Honestly, Good Cop doesn't know how he'd get by without them.)

"Expanding your repair shop?" Jean asks. "You seem to be getting pretty popular."

"I only fix--" Good Cop coughs, "--large and old things." After all, hand solder only goes so far. New electronics use printed circuit boards and machine solder, which are too small to do anything with, but replacing a few busted capacitors, that's pretty easy.

"Then it's lucky most of the things around here predate Octan, then, isn't it? Plenty of business for you." Jean claps Good Cop on the shoulder and takes his broom to finish sweeping the other side of the bakery. "But sure, I can find you a soldering iron and some of your other things. Just make a list of what you need and what it looks like. If you don't mind it being a little beat-up, I've got a friend who knows where to find things."

So Good Cop gets his electronics equipment, and after cleaning up some of the storage space, he sets up a proper electronics workbench. It's nothing like what he'd had at Octan, of course, but considering he started with nothing at all, he thinks it's quite impressive.

In between fixing things, baking, and eavesdropping on Business's movements over radio, he fiddles around with spare electronic parts for fun.

Among other things, he jury-rigs an alarm system for the bakery using an old fire alarm siren, and he installs it because he might as well.

He doesn't expect it to actually see any use, except one night he's awoken by his siren downstairs, and he grabs the closest blunt object on hand--a crowbar--and pretty much _jumps_ down the ladder.

The thief is taken out embarrassingly quickly, possibly taken off guard by the loud sounds and flashing lights. Good Cop keeps them pinned to the ground as he disables the alarm, then hoists them up and pulls their hood off.

It's Lucy.

Her hair is different (longer, with electric blue stripes), and so are her clothes and makeup, but it's unmistakably her.

Good Cop blinks twice, then sighs. Of all the encounters he thought he'd be making in the past, this was not one he'd even remotely considered. "Okay," he rasps, and he must sound scarier than he looks, because his voice makes Lucy instantly snap to attention. "It's two. I'm tired. Why rob us?"

Lucy growls at him, but doesn't attack.

"Answer," Good Cop says. "There's no...money, so why?"

There's a long pause. Good Cop starts to apply a little pressure with his crowbar.

"Someone sold you a device," she says. "Rectangular with an LED display. I lost it and I was trying to get it back."

Off the top of Good Cop's head, there are at least four items in storage that can fit that description.

"Why?" Good Cop asks. Between his voice and the hour, he's too tired to say more.

Lucy does some extremely shifty eyes, then says, "I was using it to find a thing. It's like an...item finding machine."

That sets off alarm bells in Good Cop's head, because the only thing Lucy can reasonably be trying so hard to find is the Piece of Resistance.

He _knows_ where the Piece of Resistance is, or at least close enough to it, because he remembers where they found Emmet after he got a hold of it.

Not that he's going to say so, of course.

"Okay," he says, resting his crowbar on his shoulder. "I'll look. Don't...touch anything."

"No!" Lucy says. "I mean, please, go get it, I'm not going to break or steal anything, I swear."

Good Cop fixes her with a stare to make sure she means it, then goes to the back.

It takes some digging through appliances and busted circuit boards, but he eventually finds something that looks like it could be what Lucy was asking for. It's a bit bulky, but still small enough to hold in the hand. He's not actually sure if this device is hers or if she's stealing it for her search, but he doesn't really care; it's not like he has any use for it. He brings it back and hands it to her.

"Here. Go," Good Cop says, and he can feel his voice starting to reach its limit. "Next time... _ask_ first."

Lucy looks down at the device, then up at Good Cop incredulously. She makes a face like she's going to ask a question, then thinks better of it and runs.

Good Cop sighs and rubs his temples. He really, _really_ hopes this won't cause problems.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, this isn't how Good Cop pictured his first meeting with Bad Cop.

7.

It causes problems.

He sees them coming a mile away because almost the very next day, and for several days afterwards, there are Master Builders coming into the bakery.

He knows many of them by name, remembers interrogating them for information on leaders and base locations or, failing that, _encouraging_ them to do so.

The year before Taco Tuesday was a very busy one.

He can identify even the ones he doesn't personally know, because they're the ones who come in and stare at him like he's some kind of puzzle or a particularly fascinating rock. Master Builders have never been known for their subtlety.

Lucy comes in about a week later, two months after Good Cop's blast to the past, and she sits at one of the tables until closing. Jean has left an hour ago.

Good Cop goes over to shoo her out, because he needs to clean up, and he'd rather not do it with an irritated Master Builder staring at him.

"I know you know how to talk," Lucy says. "What's with the mute act?"

Good Cop gives her an extremely unimpressed look and crosses his arms. He's not in the mood for someone to bother him, and especially not about this.

"Okay, fine, sorry I asked," Lucy says. "I wanted to say thanks for helping me out with that thing. Here." She sets some bills down on the table. "I don't know how much you paid for it, but this should cover it."

Good Cop picks up the bills and riffles through them. It's a...sizeable amount of cash, probably enough to buy that hot plate and a wok to go with it, and--

There's a note tucked in the middle, with a location and a time. Already, he has a bad feeling about this.

He puts the money down, because it feels suspiciously like a bribe, and he's not comfortable with what he might be agreeing to by taking it. He's not enthused to be dealing with Master Builders at all.

"Look, just take the money, okay? It's just for helping me get my thing back. I'm not like some kind of...mob boss or loan shark or something," Lucy says.

Good Cop looks at her, then at the money, and pulls out a notepad and pen.

//is it stolen?// he writes.

 _"What?_ Why would you-- No. I didn't _steal_ it." Lucy huffs in exasperation. "You don't have to be such a pain, you know. Just take the money and we're even, okay?"

Good Cop looks at the money again. He's not too proud to refuse what pretty much amounts to free money, but it really is too much. It's not equivalent, no matter what she says.

//you like pastry?// he writes.

"Huh? I guess so," Lucy says. "Why?"

//too much money. I'll get something to eat//

Lucy makes a face that he can't read, then says, "All right, I guess."

He goes behind the counter and loads some loaves of bread and pastries into a paper bag. He picks out good food, because it's really the right thing to do, considering, and he's sure that she's going to give some of it to her Master Builder friends, so it's not like it'll go stale.

"This is...a lot of food," Lucy says as she looks in the bag.

Good Cop shrugs. It's a lot of money, too.

"Thanks," Lucy says. "And, um, consider that note. Only if you want to. I told them you wouldn't be interested, but it's up to you."

And then she leaves.

* * *

8.

Good Cop entirely does not intend to go.

The less interaction he has with Master Builders, the happier everyone will be, and besides, it's a general life policy of his that going to locations and times hidden in stacks of money is a bad idea and definitely not worth it. Especially if the stack of money comes from a Master Builder.

But the night of, he's listening to his radio and hears that Bad Cop is attacking that location. _Tonight._

Good Cop checks the calendar and swears.

He _remembers_ this attack. He'd intercepted a note the day before from a Master Builder in a coffee shop, and Bad Cop had found out that there was going to be a huge meeting between some higher-up Master Builders to figure out something with the resistance.

It was one of the largest raids Bad Cop had made that year, and only maybe five of them got away because Batman and friends had swooped in at the last second to get people out. Bad Cop had caught them completely off-guard, and if Good Cop doesn't do _something_ \--

He's already pulling his jacket on and grabbing his crowbar as he runs out of the bakery. He has thirty minutes before Bad Cop arrives. It will take at least twenty to get there.

Good Cop _runs._

He's never particularly liked Master Builders--especially in this time, when they thought normal folks were worth slightly less than pavement because at least pavement could be torn up as building material--but he can't just _leave_ them to Business's tender mercies. Nobody deserves the Think Tank, no matter how elitist or rude.

He makes the run in twenty-three minutes, more crashing through than opening the door, his lungs burning from the effort, only to have to dodge a chair launched at his face. It crashes into the wall and the entire room bursts into a flurry of movement.

"--going on--"

"--who--"

Someone runs at Good Cop with something that looks very heavy, and Good Cop rolls out of the way as it slams into the wood flooring, throwing splinters and dust into the air. But then there's someone else, grabbing at his jacket, trying to pull him off balance, someone trying to jab him in the stomach, put him down.

Good Cop hooks his crowbar under the arm of the person trying to grab him, forcing them to let him go, and shoves the other person away and into a table. He opens his mouth to shout for them to stop, that he's on their side, but the words grate against his throat, behind his mask, and he can't--

_"Quinn?"_

Movement grinds to a halt. Lucy is there in the middle of it, brandishing a stop sign. She stomps up to Good Cop.

"Who the _heck_ smashes through the door to a secret meeting, you moron?" she demands. "What in the world were you thinking?"

Good Cop tries, tries to say _anything,_ but the explanations are trapped between his seizing lungs and disease-raw vocal cords. He reaches for his notebook on impulse, but he keeps his notebook in his work clothes, and he didn't think he'd need it--

"Snazzypants, who is this guy?" he hears someone ask.

"I...don't know," Lucy says. "He's that guy from the bakery. He, um. Doesn't really talk."

Good Cop tries to breathe in as thirty-some pairs of eyes look on suspiciously, and that that's the exact moment his body decides to have a violent coughing fit.

It racks his body, crashes against the inside of his chest like a sledgehammer, and there's blood in his mouth, hot against his lips as he expels it into his mask. He can't, he _needs--_

"Holy heck, Quinn, are you okay?" Lucy asks urgently as she grabs him by the shoulders and tries to guide him back up. 

Good Cop takes a painful, stuttering breath. "B-Bad Cop--" he manages to say.

Lucy snaps to attention. _"What?"_

Good Cop grimaces, and he feels light-headed and weak in the legs because it turns out that a full sprint with a throat infection is a horrible, horrible idea for his continued health.

"C-coming," he croaks, and his throat feels like it's trying to seize up on him as the word passes his lips. "Here. Tonight."

Lucy blinks. "Bad Cop is coming here? But we haven't heard anything--"

 _"Go."_ Good Cop hisses.

"You can't just say 'Bad Cop' and expect us to run without some kind of explanation," some man in a frock coat cuts in. "Is this guy for real? We don't even know who he is."

"No, I think we can trust him," Lucy says. "Maybe we should..."

"I'm not going to break up this meeting because some _idiot_ crashed in shouting about Bad Cop!" some other person shouts.

"We haven't heard anything from any of our informants," the man in the frock says. "Bad Cop shouldn't even know we're here tonight."

Good Cop shakes his head and feebly tries to push Lucy away from him. He does _not_ have time for this. _They_ don't have time for this. "He knows," he says in between labored breaths. "He--"

And then, the low wail of sirens in the distance.

Good Cop closes his eyes. It's too late. He knows how this goes. Close in, station robots in nearby streets and buildings to intercept and slow down the Master Builders. Incapacitate if possible, otherwise wait until Bad Cop can do it himself. Then start the siren and clear them out, set them off running.

Bad Cop always put the fewest robots behind him because Master Builders ran _away_ from him. That'll be the easiest way to break through, as long as they can get past Bad Cop.

Good Cop's grip tightens on his crowbar.

"Go," Good Cop tells Lucy. He swallows, tries to bring some moisture back into his mouth. "Towards--towards sirens."

Lucy looks at him like he's insane. "That's where Bad Cop is," she hisses.

"I--" Good Cop says, even as he's gasping for breath. There's more words, but his throat is on fire, he can't choke them out. With a sigh, he hefts his crowbar and gestures to it, then himself.

Lucy blinks. "You...you're going to fight him?"

Good Cop nods, then exits the building before she can yell at him to come back.

And there, in the glow of blue siren lights and red eyes, is Bad Cop.

* * *

_He looks tired,_ is Good Cop's first hysterical thought.

Bad Cop is, as always, scowling, drawing deep creases around his mouth and nose and pulling his brows together. His stance is tense and stiff and he hasn't shaved for at least a day. Good Cop would bet that there are some very dark circles under those sunglasses of his.

Good Cop remembers the events leading up to and following this raid, but most of the raid itself is a huge blank in his memory. Bad Cop looking like this--he must have been working non-stop since Good Cop intercepted that note, with little more than maybe an hour of sleep to keep him going.

"Everyone out with your hands up!" Bad Cop shouts into his megaphone and his voice is so _familiar,_ so _real_ that Good Cop feels something squeeze around his heart. "You are all under arrest! Come quietly or there _will_ be consequences!"

Alone, Good Cop steps out into the light, and Bad Cop turns towards him.

"Hands up," Bad Cop growls. "And drop the weapon."

Good Cop tries to take a deep breath, but his lungs don't seem to be listening to him. He feels a bit light-headed, and he's certain it's not just the oxygen deprivation. Something about seeing Bad Cop with outside eyes is--disorienting. Bad Cop treating him like a Master Builder--even more so.

Good Cop pulls in dry air past his screaming throat and drops his crowbar. He raises his hands and walks.

Good Cop's heart thumps in his chest. This is not a good match-up. Bad Cop is straight off over six years of constantly fighting Master Builders while Good Cop is shaking and sick and has spent the last two months hiding out in the slums of Bricksburg, living on the equivalent of maybe one and a half meals a day.

Bad Cop steps up to Good Cop, and with his boots and straight back, he's a couple of inches taller. "Not going to resist?" he asks.

Good Cop shakes his head.

Bad Cop's mouth twists in a way that Good Cop recognizes as suspicion. "Smart." He hands his megaphone off to a robot, then unclips a set of handcuffs from his belt. No rights are read--there won't be a trial, so there's no point. 

Good Cop takes a shuddering breath. The odds are against him, but he has one thing going for him.

He cheats.

Bad Cop snaps one cuff onto Good Cop's left wrist and--

Good Cop lunges and grabs Bad Cop's arm, then pivots and throws Bad Cop over his back to the ground. Bad Cop goes sprawling across the asphalt, and the world explodes into motion and noise.

Master Builders burst out of the building and Bad Cop scrambles to his feet, shouting, _"Get them!"_

Good Cop grabs Bad Cop's arm and snaps the other handcuff onto Bad Cop's right wrist.

Bad Cop whirls on him, reaching for his blaster, and--

Good Cop yanks on the cuffs and Bad Cop jerks forwards, off balance. His blaster remains firmly in its holster. Bad Cop looks from Good Cop's face to the handcuffs on their wrists. "You've got to be kidding me," he growls.

Good Cop grabs Bad Cop by the shoulder, hooks his foot on Bad Cop's ankle, and twists. Bad Cop falls, dragging Good Cop down with him. The metal bites into Good Cop's wrists, but there's no time to worry about something like that--Bad Cop's on his feet again, and he jerks the cuffs, pulling Good Cop up, right into Bad Cop's fist.

Good Cop tastes blood in his mouth--the front of his mouth, this time, and it's odd that it seems to taste different _(--but why is he thinking about this there's bigger prob--)._

Head spinning, Good Cop barely dodges a left hook and blocks Bad Cop's elbow with a painful _whack_ against his forearms. Bad Cop can't fight at full effectiveness at such close range, but between Bad Cop's weighted knuckle gloves and his obscene strength, he can still hit _hard._

And suddenly there's a fist in his stomach and he can't breathe--a crack at his leg and he's falling--

The red muzzle of Bad Cop's blaster fills his vision.

Good Cop grabs Bad Cop's arm and shoves it _up_ just as it fires. It vaporizes the pavement beside him, singeing his hat and filling the air with the smell of ozone.

 _Too close,_ he thinks as he staggers to his feet. _That was too close._

"You're only making things harder for yourself," Bad Cop says as he raises his blaster a second time.

Good Cop grabs the muzzle of the blaster (and it's hot, he can feel heat burning through his gloves) and twists it out of Bad Cop's grip. He throws it far out of reach and it skitters across the street.

He coughs, and his mouth tastes thick with blood, his legs are starting to feel like jelly, and he's _aching._ He won't last much longer. He needs to end this or Bad Cop will do it for him.

Good Cop dodges Bad Cop's punch, grabs his wrist and pulls him in, close enough to--

He plucks Bad Cop's glasses off by the bridge and tackles him down to the ground. Hard.

Bad Cop goes down, groaning, and Good Cop drops to his knees beside him. His wrist is bleeding from the handcuffs, and so is Bad Cop's.

The street is silent except for the sound of their panting.

Bad Cop's eyes are somewhat glazed as they find Good Cop's. Good Cop knows from past experience that having his glasses torn off is...unpleasant. Not incapacitating, necessarily, but vision problems aside, Bad Cop _needed_ his glasses in a way Good Cop never had, especially after Business.

(Bad Cop had such an open and expressive face that he had the hardest time intimidating anyone without them. At some point, when the executions became more frequent and the interrogations more bloody, they'd shifted from a weapon to a shield. Good Cop hates that he has to use that against him.)

"Who--who are you?" Bad Cop asks, and his voice cracks as it jumps from Bad Cop's deep growl to Good Cop's-- _his_ \--lighter tone.

 _Sorry,_ he mouths at Bad Cop from behind his mask. _Go to sleep, you'll be okay._

Bad Cop doesn't hear him, but his eyes flutter closed regardless, and they don't open again.

Good Cop lifts the handcuff keys from Bad Cop's belt and uncuffs them, then...

Well, he can't leave Bad Cop semiconscious in the middle of the street. The Master Builders would tear him apart before morning, and who knows what else might happen.

Carefully, he ducks down and pulls Bad Cop over his shoulder into a fireman's carry. He can't bring Bad Cop to the bakery--that would be asking for trouble--but he knows some other safe places.

* * *

In the end, he drops Bad Cop off in a small abandoned apartment at the edge of the Eastern Districts. He puts Bad Cop on the lumpy sofa and bandages his wrist, then carefully tugs off his helmet, boots, and jacket, because Bad Cop should be able to at least get some sleep without getting a crick in his neck. Goodness knows he needs it.

He rifles through Bad Cop's pockets a bit, but he doesn't find his round-frame glasses anywhere. He'd expected it, but it stings. By this point in time Bad Cop was pushing him away, sometimes even suppressing him so he wouldn't be aware of what Bad Cop was doing at all--whether it was out of shame or something else, he never found out. Bad Cop was long dead by the time Good Cop realized what had happened.

With a sigh, Good Cop folds the jacket and puts it under Bad Cop's head as a pillow. He sets Bad Cop's sunglasses on the coffee table, within easy reach.

Good Cop is tempted to leave food, too, because Bad Cop looks like he's barely got any body fat and he needs it, but he knows Bad Cop--knows _himself_ \--and he'd never eat something left around by some stranger. He's too paranoid (and perhaps reasonably so) for that.

He sits by Bad Cop's side for a while and holds his hand, trying not to think about how it's the hand of a dead man, or how it's technically _his_ hand, too. The whole situation is just--difficult to wrap his head around.

He pulls his mask down for a bit, takes a breath of fresh air that doesn't smell like sickness and blood. "I missed you, B," he murmurs. There's more to say, but he stops himself because if he starts saying everything he wants to say, he'll probably never stop. "I missed you...so much."

Bad Cop's hand is rough and warm, and as alien as it is to be holding his own hand, it feels _right._ Alive. It's been such a long time since he's seen Bad Cop like this, without the tension in his face or a deep scowl, and it--it hurts.

He wants to talk to Bad Cop so _badly,_ but he can't be around when he wakes up. As much as he wants to tell Bad Cop everything, Bad Cop's just too suspicious, too loyal to Business, and the less information about him that gets back to that megalomaniac, the better.

 _Later,_ he thinks as he tucks a note under Bad Cop's sunglasses. _There will be time later._

* * *

9.

He starts work at the bakery a few hours late the next day.

Jean merely raises their eyebrows as he comes down the ladder from the loft. "You had me worried," they say. "People have been asking after you all morning."

"Sorry," Good Cop murmurs. "Trouble last night."

"I can see that," Jean says, eyeing a scrape creeping out of the side of Good Cop's mask. "Well, I've got a few pie crusts and a bag of apples in the fridge. If you're up to it, go take care of those."

And with that, Jean goes to take care of some business in the back room, and Good Cop goes out to start peeling and slicing apples.

"Quinn?"

Good Cop looks up. It's Lucy, and she looks so pale that her freckles stand out in stark relief. And she's...holding flowers.

Good Cop gives the flowers a pointed look, then glances up at Lucy.

"We thought you were _gone,"_ she says, her voice low. "You went after Bad Cop. _Nobody_ goes after Bad Cop."

Good Cop doesn't know how to respond to that, so he shrugs and continues peeling apples.

Lucy looks like she wants to say more, but she glances at the other customers around the bakery and seems to decide against it. She leaves her flowers on Good Cop's electronics table, and goes.

Good Cop sighs. If he wasn't on the Master Builders' radar before, he definitely is now.

* * *

10.

Good Cop takes a seat in a creaky wooden chair that's missing half a leg and idly taps the rim of a bowl of fried rice that he'd cooked about an hour ago.

He's in the same apartment that he left Bad Cop in a week ago. It's not a bad apartment, by Eastern District standards. Dusty, but still furnished, working electricity and water, mostly no drafts. The building had only been recently cleared because of Business's continuing development of Bricksburg. This apartment will probably be demolished in less than a month.

He has Bad Cop's blaster hanging on the left side of his belt (he'd gone back for it after dropping Bad Cop off and decided he needed it more than Bad Cop did--Bad Cop could just get a new one), and its weight reminds him that he is doing something _very_ risky.

A Master Builder may be able to take apart ten robots without a sweat, but Good Cop needs all the advantages he can get.

And then--

Three knocks on the door.

Good Cop's breath catches, and he keeps his hand on the blaster, ready to draw.

The door opens, and Bad Cop comes in. There's nobody behind him. He closes the door behind him.

Bad Cop glances at the apartment, then at Good Cop and the blaster. "That's fingerprint locked," he says. "It won't work for you."

Good Cop doesn't correct him.

Bad Cop holds up a note, the note that Good Cop had left for him last time, and sets it on the dining room table. "I'm here. What do you want?"

Good Cop looks at him. There's a lot of things he wants. He wants to stop Business and keep Bad Cop far, far away from him. He wants to find some way to go back to his proper time period. Mostly, he wants Bad Cop to be happy again.

Bad Cop's brow furrows. "Do you...do you talk?"

Good Cop grimaces. "I'd...rather not," he croaks, and the words burn as they pass his throat. He can taste blood in the back of his mouth and his voice sounds even worse than it usually does, and Good Cop gets the sinking feeling that this is a trend that will continue indefinitely.

Bad Cop makes a face that's halfway between sympathetic and pained as he sits at the opposite side of the table. He is careful to remain out of Good Cop's arm's reach. "With a voice like that?" he asks. "Fine. No talking. How are we doing this?"

Good Cop fishes out his phone and opens a text app.

//have you eaten?// he types.

Bad Cop looks at the screen, then up at Good Cop. "What? What does that have to do with anything?"

Good Cop pushes the bowl of fried rice over and types, //eat. I'll answer questions if you do.//

There's a pause as Bad Cop looks incredulously from the food to Good Cop. "You're sick," he says flatly.

Good Cop almost rolls his eyes. As if he would ever risk getting Bad Cop sick. //I wore a mask while cooking. don't think I'm contagious.//

Bad Cop squints at him in disbelief. "You still...cooked food. For me to eat. Why?"

//you need it.//

Bad Cop's brow creases. "Why do you even care? Who are you?"

 _A friend,_ Good Cop wants to say. _Your best friend,_ but Bad Cop would never believe that. //someone who cares,// he types instead. After a pause, he adds, //its not poisoned.//

Bad Cop snorts. "I didn't think it was." They both know that if Good Cop wanted him dead, he would be. "Who are you?"

Good Cop gestures to the bowl of fried rice and gives Bad Cop an expectant look.

Bad Cop huffs in a put-upon way, then carefully picks up the bowl and smells it. When that seems to meet his expectations, he takes a small bite and chews slowly. His eyebrows go up, but there's no other visible reaction. He swallows and sets his fork down.

"So?" he asks.

//my name is quinn.// Good Cop types.

"No, it's not," Bad Cop says.

Good Cop shrugs and makes another pointed gesture at the bowl of rice.

Exasperated, Bad Cop takes another few bites. "You called me out with no backup," he says. "I could have brought in my robots and arrested you after last week."

Yes, he could have, but Good Cop was certain he wouldn't. They believed in paying kindness unto kindness, and after Good Cop made sure Bad Cop was safe after their confrontation, he didn't think Bad Cop would just turn around and arrest him. Bad Cop...didn't do bad things for no reason. He wasn't kind or polite, but he wasn't _cruel,_ either.

//I trust you.//

Bad Cop glances up at Good Cop's face, or what's visible of it. "You're an idiot," he growls. With more prompting, he grudgingly continues eating. "What do you want?"

Good Cop considers his answer carefully. He isn't going to lie, because he can't lie to Bad Cop about this if he ever wants Bad Cop to trust him. //I want you to stop working for business,// he types.

"Oh, is that all?" Bad Cop asks dryly. "Give up everything because you asked nicely?"

Good Cop sighs. He doesn't remember a lot about these few years before Taco Tuesday, but he remembers Bad Cop spiraling downwards as Business's demands increased. Bad Cop was...pushing everyone away, even him, and he very strongly suspects that Bad Cop hated himself for much of that time.

It's been so _long_ since Bad Cop was happy, and it kills Good Cop to remember it. This tired man isn't the person Bad Cop used to be, passionate and fiery and ready to offend everyone who said a bad word about him or Good Cop. Bad Cop used to argue with Business about his methods, Good Cop remembers. He doesn't do that anymore.

//he's killing you,// Good Cop types.

Bad Cop huffs. "You figure?"

//you don't like it. you're not a killer or a torturer. you don't want to target families. you think business is going too far. it's killing you b.//

Bad Cop's mouth twists in displeasure. "Don't call me B," he says. "And don't pretend you know me. I can take care of myself."

Good Cop looks at him. The corner of Bad Cop's mouth is twitching, and Good Cop knows he's off-balance because everything he's said is true, and nothing makes them more nervous than outsiders who know more about them than they should.

Good Cop isn't going for trust right now. Eventually, yes, but right now, he needs Bad Cop to not dismiss him and to think about what he says, and the easiest way to do that is to make him _suspicious._ If he gets personal, Bad Cop won't mention any of this to Business--some mysterious stranger isn't relevant to the Master Builder search, and Bad Cop is too proud to ever admit to Business that he might be in danger.

And, well, Good Cop knows _personal._

//have you told g?//

Instantly, color drains from Bad Cop's face and he slams his bowl down on the table hard enough to crack the ceramic. He stands, snarling, "This conversation is _over."_

He storms out and throws the door closed with a loud _bang._

Well, Good Cop thinks, at least he ate most of the rice.

* * *

A while later, he texts Bad Cop.

<< tues 2200, 943 crescent ave, #5 - q

Bad Cop's response is quick.

_> > How did you get this number?_

<< tues 2200, 943 crescent ave, #5 - q

_> > This is my personal number. Where did you get it?_

With that, Good Cop turns his phone off and takes the battery out. He'll see Bad Cop on Tuesday.

* * *

11.

Good Cop lies in the darkness of his loft above the bakery, listening to the chatter over his radio. It's mostly quiet for now, and he hopes that Bad Cop is getting some sleep.

He closes his eyes and tries to visualize the liminal space between him and where Bad Cop used to be. It doesn't come easily anymore, never has ever since Bad Cop died.

It's cold and dark and it feels like falling, nothing like the firm and steady warmth that Bad Cop always had, with his heart that was like a fireplace in the winter. Even now, two years later, it still makes Good Cop's heart clench every time he brushes against its absence.

If there was anyone who didn't deserve what Business did, it was B. He'd given everything, _everything_ to drive Business's dreams to fruition, loyal beyond belief to a maniac who didn't deserve it. Bad Cop carved himself to pieces to follow his orders, gouged his own heart out because he couldn't stand all the blood and injustice, and after all that, Business had simply thrown him away. Wiped him clean and forgotten him, like Bad Cop was a disposable toy.

Business apologized eventually, and he even meant it, inasmuch as someone like Business could ever mean something like that, but Good Cop never found it in him to forgive the man. Not really.

Kindness doesn't come easily to Good Cop. He knows how to do the motions, how to listen and reassure, how to stay calm and put his personal needs aside, but that's just what he _does,_ not what he _is._ He knows he's selfish and vicious and apathetic and that if he's let loose, he absolutely will hurt people, but he always tried to at least _act_ kind because, well, B believed he was.

Bad Cop wasn't kind, but he _cared_ about things in a way Good Cop never could, and even after everything with Business, he was stronger than Good Cop would ever be. After all of that, he just...couldn't forgive Business for taking him away.

Slowly opening his eyes, Good Cop leans back against the rickety wall and carefully peels his gloves off. Rough, splotchy burn scars stretch down his hands and disappear beneath his sleeves, stark and discolored even in the faint moonlight. Six years later and he still never got the scars treated--before, there hadn't been time, and _after,_ well, it didn't seem right.

B never said how he'd gotten his hands burned like this, but he was on edge around Business for weeks afterwards and Good Cop knows how to put two and two together. B always hated looking at them, like it was somehow _his_ fault he'd gotten acid thrown in his face. Good Cop had bought gloves for Bad Cop to cover it up, because that's really all he was able to do.

It seemed that way, a lot. Just...picking up broken pieces.

He swallows, tastes the ever-present tang of blood in the back of his throat. Bad Cop had always gone in the line of fire to keep him safe, but Good Cop had never done the same for B. Last time, he hadn't even really _been_ there, with how B had pushed him away without Good Cop even realizing, and in the end, he couldn't save B from anything. Not from the chemical burns, not from Business, not from his own, idiotically loyal self.

This time he'll do better.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good Cop has things under control.

12.

The Master Builders are curious about him.

It's pretty much the worst thing he's heard all year, and that includes both getting time-travel punched by a wizard and contracting a horrible throat infection.

Lucy tries to get him to go to another one of their Master Builder meetings, but Good Cop doesn't want to deal with them. Giving them anonymous tips so they can dodge Bad Cop? Fine. Using himself as a diversion to let them escape? Great. But getting actively involved with the Master Builders? No. 

He knows that if it comes down to a choice between Bad Cop and the Master Builders, he will choose Bad Cop every time. He wants to stop Business as much as they do, but there's very little possibility that they will be able to decouple Bad Cop from Business's crimes, and he won't waste his energy trying to convince them.

These Master Builders will burn Bad Cop to the ground to stop Business, and that means they are no friends of his.

So he thinks through plans on his own and refuses to meet. That should be the end of it, but it's not.

* * *

They grab him in an alleyway while he's on his way back from the grocery store and between how tired he is and how suddenly the attack occurs, he's only able to fight a few of them off with his bag of apples before someone jabs him in the back with some kind of weapon and his muscles seize up and--

He wakes up with a splitting headache in an unfamiliar room and the first thing he notices is the shouty voices coming through the walls.

 _"--you to_ talk _to him, not_ attack _him! What the heck were you thinking?"_ he hears Lucy shout.

"He _attacked_ us, _Snazzypants! He punched Betty's lights out then took two of us down with a bag of fruit!"_

 _"Yeah,_ after _you ran up and tried to grab him! This is the guy who came back after fighting Bad Cop right after fighting all of us at the same time, what did you_ think _was going to happen?"_

Good Cop rubs the bridge of his nose and slowly sits up. His back is still stiff from whatever thing they'd used to knock him out, but at the very least, his kidnappers--Master Builders, it seems, and why isn't he surprised?--had left him on a cot, untied, which is considerably better than the last time he'd been kidnapped a couple years back. They'd left his mask on, too, which is good. He can't imagine what chaos would ensue if they'd seen his face. He supposes that as far as good reasons to leave it on go, violently coughing up blood in front of everyone is pretty high on the list.

His glasses are gone, though, which is annoying. He pats around the ground, trying to find them, but wherever they are, they don't seem to be within arm's reach.

Then there's a knock on the door and Lucy comes in.

"Oh, good, you're awake," she says. "Look, I'm really sorry about the guys who grabbed you, they weren't supposed to get violent like that. I told them it was a bad idea, but they didn't listen."

Good Cop makes a face. There's something that's just _weird_ about Lucy acting apologetic, especially to him. Last time he'd talked to her, back in his proper time, she'd punched him in the stomach for...well, he actually can't remember anymore. He's pretty sure he didn't deserve it, though.

"...Right, you don't talk," Lucy says after a long pause. "Um, okay, well. I know you really don't want to come to any meetings and stuff, but, like, since you're already here? I guess I can introduce you or something, and we can talk about stuff. Or I'll tell you stuff, I guess, since you..." she trails off awkwardly.

Ah, yes, Good Cop thinks, as if proximity was the issue he had with attending Master Builder meetings. It's not that he minds doing a meet and greet in of itself, since getting information about the Master Builder circles can only help his plans in the long run, but he'd rather not imply that he wants to work with them when he doesn't, and he'd also rather not create unfortunate precedents. Getting kidnapped every time the Master Builders want an audience with him comes very low on his list of acceptable work relationship practices.

He settles for making a glasses gesture with his fingers and motioning around the room. No matter what happens in the next few minutes, he'll feel better about it if he can actually _see._

Thankfully, Lucy gets his point and she obligingly grabs his glasses--from the other side of the room, it seems--and hands them to him. He nods and slides them on, then takes a proper look around.

It's nondescript. No windows, concrete floor, some shelves around the sides, so it's a closet or some other kind of storage room. Classy.

"And, uh, here," Lucy says, holding a notepad out to Good Cop. "Since you kinda needed this last time."

Well, that's surprisingly considerate. Good Cop takes it and the offered pen with a polite nod and tucks them into his pocket. Lucy looks at him as he does, shifting her weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. Good Cop supposes she, like many people lately, is put off by his silence.

Tough. It's not like he's enjoying it either.

"Okay, well, I guess I'll show you around," Lucy says after an awkwardly long pause.

She leads him out into the hallway and there doesn't seem to be any windows anywhere, so they're probably underground. Fair enough. It would be harder to hide a secret resistance from things like surveillance and 'routine inspections' above ground.

It turns out that they're in a set of tunnels on the edge of Bricksburg--and labyrinthine ones at that, Good Cop thinks as they make turn after turn until he's thoroughly exhausted even his abilities of spatial awareness. Lucy explains while they walk, apparently for no other reason than to fill the silence, that they were built before Business came in and started putting in some actual building regulations, which explains how unintuitive they are. Afterwards, Master Builders came in and expanded the tunnels to go between safe houses and useful resistance locations and spruced it up a bit so people can stay down here to lay low for a while if they need to. It even reaches past the walls for people who need to make a stealthy, if slow, escape.

It's all quite interesting, actually, because Good Cop doesn't recall ever discovering these tunnels. They (though more him than Bad Cop) always suspected there was some kind of network like this, just based on patterns in the Master Builder's escape routes, but they'd never found anything, no matter how hard they squeezed the Master Builders for secrets. It figures it would be something as simple as having entrances blocked off in a way such that only a Master Builder can pass through them.

There is the question, then, of why Lucy seems so free with this information. After all, he's been explicit about not wanting to deal with them, and this kind of info can break a resistance if it gets into the wrong hands--he would know.

She stops and knocks on a side door. "My teacher should be here," she tells Good Cop. "He's, uh, a little weird sometimes, but he's pretty cool if you ignore that."

Good Cop shrugs. Most Master Builders he's met can be described as 'a little weird' and he hasn't been fazed yet.

After about a minute of waiting, the door swings open and Good Cop sees an old hippy with a crooked white staff on the other side that he _definitely_ remembers meeting at some point, though his name escapes Good Cop's memory entirely.

"Quinn, this is Vitruvius," Lucy says. "Vitruvius, this is that guy I told you about from the bakery, Quinn."

Vitruvius's brows go up. "Quinn?" he asks. "Is he the one who made the bear claws?"

"Uh, yeah," Lucy says. "And the other stuff, too. I didn't bring him here for his baking, though..."

"Good to meet you, Quinn," Vitruvius says to a point about two feet to Good Cop's left. "Those were some of the most delectable bear claws I've had in years. You should tell me what filling you use."

Good Cop nods politely, but Vitruvius doesn't react.

Lucy glances between them. "Right, Vitruvius is blind and you don't talk. I should have realized that would cause problems," she says under her breath. "Just, uh, give me a sec," she tells Good Cop. "I'll go explain some stuff to Vitruvius really quick, okay?"

She goes without waiting for a response, leaving Good Cop in the doorway. He can't really hear what she says, but it's not too hard to guess since, even though _she_ keeps her voice low, Vitruvius doesn't, and there's very few topics that involve responses like, "He fought Bad Cop?" and "Do you think he will help the resistance?"

...Like he said. Master Builders aren't known for their subtlety.

It's the point where the topic shifts in what is a truly incomprehensible leap in logic to Master Building and Good Cop's hypothetically prodigious skills in regards to it that he decides to step in and interrupt.

He grabs the door and slams it against the wall.

Lucy startles and turns towards him. "What?" she asks.

//I'm not a Master Builder,// he writes.

There's a long pause.

_"What?"_

* * *

The ensuing argument can be summarized thus:

"Why didn't you _tell_ me?" Lucy demands.

//why did you assume I was a Master Builder?// Good Cop responds.

Lucy makes indignant noises and Vitruvius offers them both mugs of herbal tea. It goes on like this for a while.

The important thing is, the arguments of whether Good Cop should join the resistance or not get completely derailed and after a considerable amount of yelling, he eventually gets escorted back to the bakery by an irate Lucy.

"I can't believe you," she says.

Good Cop shrugs. He'll readily admit that several issues flying around the resistance right now are probably at least partially his fault, but anyone assuming he's a Master Builder is solely on them.

* * *

13.

Tuesday night, Bad Cop is at the meeting place before Good Cop is.

"I can't believe you're still alive. I could have trapped this place," Bad Cop says as Good Cop enters. "And you just...walked in."

Honestly, Good Cop was half expecting him to. If Bad Cop had been meeting anyone else, he definitely would have, so the fact that he hadn't is auspicious. _{I would have handled it,}_ he signs.

Bad Cop's brow furrows. "I don't know sign language," he says.

Good Cop shrugs. He's still learning, too. He sets down a container of vegetable stir fry and pushes it towards Bad Cop along with a fork and a paper towel.

"I do know how to feed myself," Bad Cop says. "You're not going to win my trust by cooking for me."

Good Cop takes his phone out and types, //you don't eat enough.//

Bad Cop makes a sour face. "I don't want to hear that from _you._ You're at _least_ twenty pounds lighter than me."

Twenty-four, Good Cop doesn't say. He'd lost muscle mass after Taco Tuesday and a lot more after getting sent into the past. Getting sick hadn't helped.

It's hard to eat when everything tastes like blood.

Instead, Good Cop sits down and gives Bad Cop the most wide-eyed, expectant look he can. Whether it's as innocent as intended is debatable, but it has the desired effect because Bad Cop grunts and says, "Fine, I'll eat it. You're fussier than my Ma, I swear."

It's fortunate Good Cop can't talk, because it's the only thing that stops him from calling that out for the blatant lie it is. So he sits and silently fumes while Bad Cop eats because he can't _believe_ he'd say something that outrageous.

After a couple minutes of silence, Bad Cop glances up at Good Cop and says, "So what? You called me out to watch me eat? Because that's creepy and I've got better things to do. Your cooking's not _that_ good."

Good Cop gestures vaguely and types, //why did you come?//

"What--" Bad Cop says. "You _called me out,_ why do you _think_ I came?"

//you didn't have to. you could have ignored it.//

Bad Cop leans in and jabs at Good Cop with his fork. "You sent a text to my _personal number,_ telling me to come here." His voice drops low and dangerous. "Now, I don't know if that's your idea of a threat, but if you're going to waste my time, then let me ask you: _What_ are you trying to achieve?"

//I want to help you.//

"That's garbage," Bad Cop growls. "You want me to stop working for Business."

//they're the same thing.// Good Cop types. //but for the record getting you to stop working for business is secondary.// He glances at Bad Cop's food. //finish your vegetables.//

"Don't change the subject," Bad Cop says. "You're wasting your time. But tell me: why do _you_ think you can make me change my mind?"

And Good Cop supposes that that's the sticking point. He doesn't think he's ever been able to stop Bad Cop from doing something he wanted to in their entire lives, and if it was like that before, then what chance does he have now? Bad Cop's loyal and headstrong and Good Cop doesn't know if he'll be able to get Bad Cop to trust him before it's too late.

//I don't,// Good Cop types. //but I have to try because I don't want you to get hurt.//

That's clearly not the response Bad Cop expects, because the lines in his face soften just the slightest bit and he swallows, then sits back in his chair.

//I know you don't believe me but I trust you,// Good Cop types, //and I want to help you.//

"You're wasting time," Bad Cop says tiredly. "Yours and mine."

Good Cop looks at him and remembers just how _exhausted_ Bad Cop was all the time. He felt like he had to do everything perfectly, all by himself, as if his worth was directly tied to the number of people he could bring in with no thought to his health. Just the sum of a list of crossed-out names and blood drained off of the interrogation table and numbers in an account book turned in at the end of the week.

The years with Business were not pleasant ones for anyone involved.

Good Cop sighs. Bad Cop never responded well to people insisting things he doesn't believe about himself, and the truth, laid out plainly, is that Bad Cop doesn't believe he's worth helping. Especially not when he's this far deep. //well,// Good Cop types, //I don't think so.//

"Stubborn," Bad Cop says.

Good Cop shrugs. //your food's getting cold.//

That startles a snort out of Bad Cop. "Right, that's what's important here," he says. He picks up his fork again. "Don't think this conversation is over."

He eats in silence and makes no further attempts at conversation. Good Cop lets him--Bad Cop really doesn't eat enough these days.

When Bad Cop is finished, he sets the fork down and says, "I guess we're done. Unless you have any parting words of wisdom?"

Good Cop shakes his head.

"Fine," Bad Cop says. He pushes his chair out and gets up to leave. Just as he reaches the doorway, he turns back towards Good Cop and says, "Next time, you'll want to dice your vegetables smaller so they cook more evenly, and maybe lay off the salt a bit. But it wasn't bad, so. Thanks."

Bad Cop goes, and Good Cop just sighs.

B _was_ always better at cooking.

* * *

<< friday? - q

_> > Seriously, where did you get my number?_

<< I'll tell you eventually.

<< can you do friday?

_> > Do you really think I don't have better things to do on a Friday night?_

_> > Don't answer that._

_> > I'll think about it._

* * *

14.

It starts getting cold.

It's no surprise; it's already November. Good Cop normally doesn't mind wind and cold, but that was when he'd had a proper apartment with things like heat and more than just the one jacket he'd been wearing when he was punched into the past--the one that's meant for _spring_ weather. He's lived in Bricksburg long enough to know winter here hits like a truck, and no matter how much he tries to fix up the loft and stock up on things like warm clothes and blankets, he doesn't feel even remotely ready.

He sits by the light of an old desk lamp thumbing through pages of notes, of everything he remembers from this year and the events leading up to Taco Tuesday and Bad Cop's death at the end of August alongside accounts of attacks and investigations as they occur again for the second time. The blank spaces between notable events are distressingly large--Good Cop simply can't remember very much about the last few years before everything came to a head, and with how aggressively Bad Cop suppressed him for that time, he may as well have not been there at all.

He has a plan, of course he does, but calling it that is generous when it mostly amounts to grabbing the Piece of Resistance as soon as it's safe to do so and breaking into Octan to destroy the Kragle. He'd like to say he has it under control, that he'll be able to take care of Bad Cop before it's too late, but he only has one chance and he knows better than anyone that Bad Cop's loyal and stubborn beyond belief and if he can't gain his trust in time? There's really no plan B.

The truth is simple: he doesn't know enough. He doesn't know when Business finishes his Kragle machine, when his parents end up straying into the line of Business's fire, when that godforsaken Scepter ends up in Business's Artifact Chamber--all invisible deadlines that Good Cop can't afford to miss.

And of course, there's the deadline hanging on his own head.

His illness is, as he'd feared, getting worse. It's good that he's learning sign language because his voice is completely shot--he can't speak even if he tries--and while he's not coughing up blood as much anymore, he's still coughing, and his lungs have started the annoying habit of occasionally not working. He hasn't gotten fevers or chills yet, but he's sure it's only a matter of time.

He tells himself it's nothing he can't endure, but it's been over a month with the taste of blood lingering in the back of his throat and a cough permanently caught in the tightness in his chest and it's _draining_ to have to fight his own body, and he knows it won't get better if he doesn't get treatment. The best he's willing to hope for is that he has years, not months, left, but even that much is uncertain.

How's he supposed to save Bad Cop if he can't even save himself?

He closes his notebook and lies down on his beaten-up futon on the floor of his loft with an arm over his eyes and tries not to think too hard about the draft that's coming in from _somewhere_ and how he's probably got less than a few weeks to fix it before the first snows come in. Between the Master Builders and Bad Cop and Business and _himself,_ there's just too many things to take care of, too many things he needs to change and Good Cop can feel the dates drawing inexorably closer.

He's tired. He doesn't want to deal with the future, and he's not sure if he can, but he will.

He doesn't have a choice.

* * *

15.

Lucy comes in to the bakery Thursday evening with a look on her face like she's trying to solve a very difficult riddle. She buys a sweet roll and sits at a table that's out of the way with her notebook and doesn't make a fuss, so Good Cop leaves her to it.

Predictably, she's still there when it's closing time, so Good Cop goes over to see what she wants this time.

He's about to grab his notepad to ask when she shoves a piece of paper in his face and says, "This is _your_ handwriting."

Good Cop takes the sheet from her. It's the latest anonymous tip he'd dropped off for the resistance on Bad Cop and Business's movements, specifically about the raid on the coffee shop two blocks down that's planned for tomorrow night.

"It _is,_ isn't it?" Lucy asks.

Good Cop doesn't answer, just folds the paper in half and hands it back to her. He'd figured they'd find him out eventually, though he hadn't thought it would be his handwriting to give it away.

"We've been getting these notes for over two months now," Lucy says. "And we were suspicious of them at first, because obviously, but the information's never been wrong. We've been going crazy trying to figure out who's been sending them all this time, and it was _you?"_

Good Cop stares back at Lucy impassively.

Lucy makes a face. "Come on, Quinn, this better not be like the Master Builder thing where you let us think you were one for weeks. Just give me a straight freaking answer!"

With a sigh, Good Cop takes out his notepad and writes, //does it matter if it's me?//

"Yes! Because nobody has any idea _where_ this information is coming from!" Lucy says. "We've got spies and informants and _none_ of them are able to get information this accurate or in-depth. There's times and locations and places that are getting staked out and people who are being investigated, all this stuff we had absolutely no clue about, of _course_ it matters who's giving it to us, because we...we don't know if it's some kind of trap."

Good Cop supposes they're right to be wary. Strategically planting true and false information in order to lure out the Master Builders _does_ sound like the sort of trap he would set--and many traps he _did_ set, come to think of it. With varying levels of success, of course, but it does tend to make one paranoid.

//it'd be hard to trap you when I'm not telling you to do anything// Good Cop writes.

Lucy lets out a breath. "So it _is_ you."

Good Cop shrugs.

Lucy runs a hand through her hair and takes a breath like she's going to say something, but after a long pause, she lets it go. "Quinn," she says instead, "who _are_ you?"

Good Cop just stares at her. She meets his gaze, seemingly trying to decode whatever secrets he has hiding behind his eyes. Whatever she does or doesn't find, it makes her look back down at the table.

"You fought Bad Cop," she says. "And you _won._ Nobody saw it, but you were still around afterwards so obviously you...beat him. One on one. You fought him and we all got away." She leans back in her chair and says, "Which, thanks, by the way. I don't think I ever actually said that."

Good Cop nods once. 

Lucy clasps her hands in her lap and continues, "But like, clearly, you know something we don't, because you're the one writing up all these tips and handing off all this information about what Bad Cop's doing that literally nobody else can get their hands on.

"You're not a Master Builder. I mean, nobody else believes it, but you said so yourself and there's no reason to lie about something like _that._ But there's no way you're just some normal guy, Quinn. Even I can see that. I don't know what weird powers you might have up your sleeves, but it's _something._

"You must want Business to go down just as much as we do, or you wouldn't have done all the things you've done. We're all on the same side, here. So why is it we've _never_ heard of you? We've never heard of _anyone_ like you, Quinn. Ever. Where did you come from? Why are you doing all this? Why _now?"_ Lucy asks.

//I don't think it really matters// Good Cop writes.

"Then what _does_ matter?" Lucy snaps. "We have no idea what to do about you, because you're crazy weird and you won't talk to us, you won't tell us _anything,_ but you could do so much if you just _worked_ with us. The other guys, they don't know if they can trust you. You're too much of a wild card or something, but maybe that's what we need. It's been seven and a half years, and clearly nothing's worked so far."

Good Cop looks at her. She's _hopeful,_ like maybe she sees an end coming that he can't, like he and his imaginary magic powers alone can turn the tables. He wishes he could be so optimistic.

//don't get your hopes up// he writes.

Lucy exhales heavily. "Why won't you help us, Quinn?"

//we don't want the same thing// Good Cop replies. //and it's better if you don't pretend we do//

"What _do_ you want?" Lucy asks.

//you're smart. you'll figure it out// Good Cop writes. He taps his broom and gestures for her to get up. As much as he may or may not enjoy Lucy's company, he's got a bakery to clean and laminated dough to start rolling out for tomorrow.

"Fine, I'll go," Lucy says. "But I'm not going to stop asking you to help us. Whatever you're trying to do, we can help you do it better." She picks up her notebook and tucks it back into her bag. When she leaves, she's got that thoughtful look again.

* * *

16.

Friday morning, about two hours after opening, Jean comes to the back room and tells Good Cop that there's a customer looking for him.

Good Cop can only assume it's Lucy again, though she normally doesn't come around so early, so he signs Jean an affirmative, then puts down the bag of sugar he's measuring from.

He goes out to the front to meet her and freezes.

It's not Lucy at all. It's Bad Cop.

He's incognito, out of uniform in an aggressively nondescript brown sweater, holding a cloth bag, and wearing normal reading glasses instead of his aviators. With his hair combed, he's unrecognizable to just about everyone, but Good Cop would never be able to miss him.

"Quinn," Bad Cop says as he walks up to the counter, and his voice is soft and deliberate, with most of his usual burr smoothed out. "So you _do_ work here."

Good Cop glances back to make sure he's out of Jean's line of sight, then signs, _{How did you find me?}_

Bad Cop's eyebrows go up. "You had flour on your clothes both times we met," he says, so he's clearly learned some sign language since Tuesday. "And you smell like cinnamon. Wasn't a hard guess."

Good Cop's mouth twists. He shouldn't have been so careless.

"Really," Bad Cop continues, "I ought to ask how _you_ recognized me so fast. I can count on one hand the number of people who know me that well, and you're not one of them."

Ah. If only he knew.

 _{Why are you here?}_ Good Cop asks.

"Checking on you, that's all. Thought I'd see what you do when you're not harassing me," Bad Cop says as he takes a cursory look down the bakery counter. His scowl deepens. "Should someone who's sick really be working with this much food?"

 _{I'm not contagious,}_ Good Cop replies. At least, he's _pretty_ sure he isn't.

Bad Cop makes a face. "I don't know that one." He huffs and looks off to the side--he's always had problems with eye contact. "Whatever. I'm not here to chat. Wanted to let you know I have plans tonight. Work and all."

Right. Bad Cop has a coffee shop to thoroughly sweep for Master Builders tonight. Good Cop couldn't have expected him to derail those plans just to chat.

The job always comes first. That's the rule.

"I don't want to see you there," Bad Cop says. "If we fight again, I'm not losing."

Good Cop can believe it. He got Bad Cop by surprise last time, and he's not getting that edge again. He's touched that Bad Cop would bother to warn him, though. It doesn't mean Bad Cop trusts him, but at least he cares enough to not want Good Cop arrested. Not enough to _not_ arrest him, but at least enough to tell him to stay out of the way.

Small steps.

Bad Cop holds his bag out to Good Cop. "Here. I don't take charity, especially not from people who look like they'll snap in half from a stiff breeze."

Good Cop takes the bag and looks inside. There's fresh vegetables as well as other ingredients, the kinds he can't get at the local store. Dried mushrooms, chili oil, packets of fermented vegetables, star anise, black vinegar...

Most of it looks suspiciously like it's taken directly from their kitchen.

"I assume you do the same type of cooking I do," Bad Cop says. "And I figure you're missing a few things."

 _{Thank you,}_ Good Cop signs. _{You didn't have to.}_

The slightest blush creeps into Bad Cop's cheeks. "Yeah, well," he says, a little of his normal growl slipping back into his voice. "Like I said. I don't take charity. If you're going to keep forcing me to eat your cooking, I should make sure you're not starving to do it."

Good Cop sets the bag down, then signs, _{Would you like a pastry?}_ because it's the least he can do.

Bad Cop squints. "Do I want a what?"

Good Cop gestures to the food in the display case.

Bad Cop looks over at the food, pauses, then says, "Okay, fine. I might as well. A croissant and a blueberry muffin is fine." He digs his wallet out of his pocket and when Good Cop makes a motion to sign that that's not what he meant, Bad Cop glares at him and says, _"Take the money._ You're trying to run a business, and you clearly need it more than I do."

Well, Good Cop knows how to pick his fights and that's a losing battle if there ever was one, so he accepts the ten dollar bill and doesn't protest when Bad Cop tells him to keep the change. Bad Cop takes his food and goes.

"Who was that?" Jean asks when Good Cop goes to put his groceries away. "Your brother?"

 _{Something like that,}_ Good Cop replies.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time travel takes a toll.

17.

Bad Cop visits the bakery semi-regularly after that. He's always plainclothes, and he never says more than a couple of sentences, but each time he sits at the small table in the far corner and orders a croissant with a cup of coffee.

Every time he eats one, he gets a look on his face like he's remembering something from a long, long, time ago.

When their birthday--Good Cop's 44th, Bad Cop's 40th--rolls around towards the end of November, Good Cop slides a slice of chocolate cake onto Bad Cop's table without comment.

Bad Cop, who has a slightly feverish look in his eyes and looks halfway ready to pass out from exhaustion, doesn't even know what to make of it. He laughs and he laughs with his head buried in his hands until it sounds like he's crying.

Good Cop carefully pulls him into a half hug, because there's nothing else he can do--he can't even say he's sorry--and he stays with him until Bad Cop's quiet and his body stops shaking. Later that night, he texts Bad Cop to remind him to call Ma and Pa and get some sleep.

That night, Good Cop stays awake for a long time, feeling so incredibly powerless.

* * *

18.

It's in the first week of December, two nights after the first snow, that Good Cop is abruptly woken in the middle of the night by a loud banging sound downstairs.

He grabs his crowbar and goes down to check what's happening.

_"--gonna be okay, just hold on--"_

Good Cop flicks a light on and sees two figures standing outside the bakery door. He's pretty sure one of them is Lucy because there's nobody else who would come knocking at this hour, but without his glasses he can't tell who the person leaning on her shoulder is.

"Quinn!" Lucy shouts through the door, her voice shrill and urgent. "Quinn! We need help! We've got-- My friend, he's hurt!"

And, well, Good Cop's not the kind of person to deny people help when they're literally on his doorstep. He disables the alarm to let them in and--

Oh, no.

Lucy's friend is bleeding and it's _everywhere,_ there's too much of it soaking into their clothes and dripping onto the floor. Good Cop drops his crowbar and helps Lucy bring them in, already estimating exactly how many pints of blood they've lost and how much medical supplies he has. Neither thought is particularly reassuring.

Lucy carefully sets them on the ground, saying, "I'm so sorry, Quinn, we got hit by surprise and this was the closest safe place. We've got someone coming who can help him, but it's bad, it's really, really bad, and I've never, I don't know how to--" She swallows and looks at Good Cop with wide eyes. "You can help, can't you?"

Good Cop gently moves Lucy aside so he can take a look. The damage is a stab wound to the abdomen. Whatever made the wound has been pulled out, which explains all of the blood. It looks like they're still breathing, though, which is good.

Good Cop directs Lucy to apply pressure to the wound, then carefully pulls off the guy's helmet to check for head damage and freezes.

It's Benny.

Good Cop blinks and looks at the helmet in his hands. There's a crack at the bottom, reaching up into the glass in a way that's intimately familiar.

Was _this_ how Benny broke his helmet?

"Quinn," Lucy says, her voice creeping on hysteric, "he's not gonna die, is he?"

Good Cop puts the helmet down. Right. Benny's bleeding out on the linoleum and he needs help. He can ask what happened later.

He runs to get the first aid kit from his electronics workbench and rifles through it while Lucy keeps pressure on the wound. There's not much, but there's bandages and antiseptic which will help Benny last until whatever help Lucy's called shows up.

Good Cop sanitizes his hands and cuts Lucy some bandages to hold to Benny's wound so he can check vitals. Pulse and breathing is unobstructed and fast, but not by _too_ much. He's conscious, too. Good sign. His skin's on the cooler side and covered in a thin sheen of sweat, though, and he doesn't seem to be entirely lucid. Bad sign.

Panic starts to set in as he cuts Benny's clothes open to clean around the wound. It's bad, it's really bad, and Benny needs a blood transfusion, but Good Cop doesn't have that. He doesn't have _anything_ he needs to take care of this, and he doesn't even know _how._ He's not a hero, he doesn't know how to save people, but he has to figure something out, because Lucy's frozen up, Benny's not in any state to help himself, and Good Cop can't let Benny die on his floor like this, he _can't._

What's he supposed to do when the bleeding is this bad? Check vitals, stop the bleeding, what else?

...Oxygen. Loss of blood means loss of oxygen.

Benny carries an oxygen tank, Good Cop remembers. It's part of his astronaut suit or something and it's not meant for medical use, but it's a hundred percent oxygen and it's...it's got to be better than nothing.

He turns Benny over to unhook the tank and detach the oxygen line from Benny's suit. Great. Wonderful. But it's not like he can just shove it up Benny's nose, that's not how that works, he needs a mouthpiece, or a mask, or...

Wait.

 _He's_ wearing a mask. It's even molded instead of cloth, and he'd regretted buying them because they were horribly uncomfortable, but--

He tears it off, and he hopes to everything worth hoping to that he really _isn't_ contagious, but even getting some respiratory infection has to be better than bleeding to death here and now. He cuts a slit into the mouth with his pocketknife and stuffs the oxygen line into it, and with adrenaline-shaky hands, he carefully opens the oxygen valve and holds the world's worst emergency oxygen mask over Benny's nose and mouth. He desperately hopes he's not making a terrible mistake.

And then they wait.

It only takes eight minutes for Lucy's friends to arrive, but it feels like hours.

They seem to know what they're doing, because they grab Benny with practiced efficiency and haul him out of the bakery without fuss. They're so focused that they barely even notice Good Cop, which is just as well because he feels sick from adrenaline and doesn't think there's anything he could do even if he tried.

Lucy goes with them without so much as a parting word, and Good Cop just sits on the floor, next to the giant blood smear on the linoleum.

It's a long time before he's calmed down enough to get the mop.

* * *

19.

Time travel is awful.

It's not the first time Good Cop thinks this, but it _is_ the first time Good Cop thinks he grasps the _gravity_ of it.

If he wasn't here, Lucy would have brought Benny somewhere else and he'd have been fine and alive all the way up to Taco Tuesday and everything after that. He wouldn't bleed out all over the floor and be left to the mercy of someone with only first response training and barely any supplies.

Benny could have _died_ last night--and he still might, Good Cop doesn't know--and it would have been entirely Good Cop's fault.

Good Cop's used to holding lives in his hands. He's held the scalpel and pierced through skin and muscle, he's watched flesh pop and burn, but this...

What is he supposed to do when his _existence_ endangers people's lives?

* * *

20.

Good Cop keeps meeting with Bad Cop. Of course he does.

He brings food and Bad Cop tells him how to make it better, and they talk about meaningless things, and at some point it starts feeling halfway friendly. Good Cop keeps trying to reach out, trying to get it into Bad Cop's thick skull that, yes, he really _is_ there, he really does care.

It takes a long time, but eventually Bad Cop starts tentatively reaching back.

"I killed someone yesterday," Bad Cop says softly over a mug of lukewarm cocoa. "I didn't mean to do it, but when there's fighting like that, it's either me or them, and I can't pick them."

Good Cop doesn't tell Bad Cop it's not his fault. That's not what he wants or needs to hear.

"Business told me it was a good job, but..." He swallows. "It's not like he saw, did he? I hit him, and his foot slipped, and there he went off the roof. Bang, bang, crash. There wasn't a lot of blood, but his _neck,_ it was...bad. He looked like a doll. Like one of those wooden dolls with the strings, all the joints bent the wrong way."

 _{I'm sorry,}_ Good Cop signs.

"I didn't mean to kill him," Bad Cop says.

 _{I know,}_ Good Cop replies.

"But I did. And it keeps happening. I just..." Bad Cop winds his fingers into his hair, face twisted into an expression Good Cop can't even bring himself to describe. "I want to stop, Quinn."

* * *

21.

Halfway into December, winter sets in for real and Good Cop starts having good days and bad days.

The bad days are when he wakes up in the middle of the night aching all over, when he feels like there's a band pulling his lungs closed and he can't _breathe,_ when he gets waves of dizziness that come on so hard that he has to drop what he's doing and stagger to a counter, a chair, anything to keep himself from collapsing.

The good days are the same, but he deals with it.

He tries not to let his worsening state show, but there's only so much he can do. Bad Cop, his eyes as sharp as always, catch on Good Cop when he steadies himself against tables or excuses himself to the washroom to cough up blood, and he starts bringing groceries for Good Cop more often. Usually, it's just vegetables, but sometimes there's a few cuts of pork or a small bag of fruit. Sometimes there's cooked dishes.

The first time Good Cop eats Bad Cop's red braised pork, almost two and a half years since he tasted it last, he can't help it, he cries and cries and cries and he--

He doesn't want to lose this.

He stays in as much as he can, and he's thankful, now more than ever, that the bakery has sufficient heating and he doesn't need to go out through the snow to get to work. And while Bad Cop resolutely makes Good Cop stop going out to random abandoned buildings just to talk to him, there's still trips to the market and information drop-offs, and more than once Good Cop finds himself leaning against the brickwork of some random building in the middle of the snow and wind, gasping for breath and trying to blink stars out of his eyes. He hasn't fainted out there yet, but the fear that he will rests in the back of his mind. Between keeping his identity under wraps and trying (futilely, he thinks on his worst days) to save people who don't deserve to die, he's not actually sure if it would be better if someone found him afterwards.

He makes his way through the days as best as he can. Day after day, hour after hour. There's a war simmering under the streets of Bricksburg, a pestilence lurking in Business's information streams, and if Good Cop wants to save Bad Cop, if he wants to stop Business, he has to live long enough to get at the root of the problem, and he will. He'll keep himself alive out of spite if he has to.

If only living didn't feel so much like dying.

* * *

22.

Lucy comes to visit the bakery again a few days before Christmas, this time during normal business hours.

She's done something with her hair since last time, something bright green and orange and quite possibly the least inconspicuous thing Good Cop's _ever_ seen, and when he gives it a pointed look, Lucy says, "After the thing last time, I needed to change my look. Don't want Bad Cop asking around for the girl with blue tiger stripes."

Good Cop's skepticism clearly shows, because she looks at him for about five seconds before sighing and saying, "I liked the colors, okay?"

And, well, it's not Good Cop's place to make comments on her taste, so he asks, //how's Benny?//

Lucy blinks at him. "How do you know his--? Never mind. He's fine now. It was pretty bad, but we managed to get him some help and, uh, if you hadn't done what you did, he probably wouldn't have made it, so, um. Thanks."

Good Cop exhales in relief. So he hadn't murdered Benny after all. That's...that's good.

//what happened?//

"Oh, uh," Lucy says. "Nothing much, really. It's not like we got caught by Bad Cop or anything, we were running some information and ran into a patrol, is all. We got separated from the rest of our group and, um, Benny kind of...ran into a stabby thing. Really hard."

That sounds plausible, if lacking in critical detail, so Good Cop doesn't push. It's not like he thought Bad Cop had stabbed Benny--Bad Cop was squeamish about blood.

//he left his helmet here,// Good Cop writes, though it's probably more accurate to say that their friends had forgotten to grab it. He put it in the loft, well out of sight, but it's not like he wants to keep it.

"It's here?" Lucy asks. "I thought we dropped it on the way back or something or...well, I'll let him know so he can pick it up."

Good Cop nods. If Benny's well enough to be up and about after his traumatic perforation, that's a good sign.

There's a pause and Lucy looks down at the table, awkwardly threading her fingers together. It doesn't look like she wants to say anything, and there's still two hours before closing, so Good Cop leaves her alone and goes back to work.

She's still there at the end of the day, so Good Cop goes to check on her.

//is everything okay?// he asks.

"What? Yeah, I'm okay," Lucy says. "I'm just kinda...y'know?"

Good Cop does not, in fact, know.

Lucy sighs. "Sorry, I...I've been out of it since that thing with Benny. Vitruvius doesn't want me going on missions for a little while and I just needed to get out somewhere and this is a pretty okay place and you're pretty okay even though you never answer questions properly, and...sorry, Quinn. I'm not trying to make trouble, I swear. I'll go if you don't want me here."

Good Cop wonders if that's the first time Lucy's ever seen someone in critical condition. If it was, she might still be in shock.

He goes to the counter to grab a few of the day-old fruit tarts and sets them in front of Lucy.

"What...?" she asks.

//for you,// Good Cop writes. //I need to clean, but you can stay until I'm done if you want.//

Lucy looks up at him, then down at the tarts. "Wow, um. Thanks," she says.

So Good Cop cleans up, slowly. He fatigues easily these days and he has to take frequent breaks or he'll get dizzy, but it's good to keep the bakery clean, both for business and his own peace of mind. At least, that's what he tells himself.

It's about an hour later, when Good Cop's wiped down the tables and partially through sweeping the floor that Lucy asks, "How do you do it?"

Good Cop glances up at her.

"I mean, you know. All those things you do. Like when you fought Bad Cop, we thought we were all toast, but you...you didn't even think about it and you went out there to fight him. Or when Benny got hurt, I wasn't able to do anything, but you knew how to keep him alive long enough and...how do you do that without getting scared?" Lucy asks.

Good Cop gives her a look. Between this and the Master Builder thing and the imaginary magic powers she keeps insisting he has, he's not sure where she gets all these ideas from.

"I don't...I don't know what I'd have done if Benny had died. Like, I don't even know him that well, but he needed help and I wasn't able to do anything. There was just so much _blood,_ and I couldn't--I didn't know what to do," Lucy says. "And yeah, it's the resistance, people die sometimes because Bad Cop's a murdering--"

Good Cop thumps his broom and Lucy blinks at him.

"What?" she asks. "He's killed people, you know he has. You can't argue--"

Good Cop thumps his broom a second time and gives her a stern look. If she has problems with Bad Cop, that's fine, but he does _not_ want to hear people talking about him like he's some kind of unrepentant murderer.

"Fine," Lucy says with a huff, "because he's Bad Cop, are you happy?" When Good Cop doesn't respond, she continues, "A bunch of us have died in the last seven years, _and most of that was because of Bad Cop,"_ she says with a pointed look at Good Cop, "but my point is that it's not like I've never seen a dead body. It's just, I've never had to keep someone alive like that, and I--I was scared, you know? And I'm scared it'll happen again, but it's not like I can't just _not_ run missions."

Good Cop sighs and goes over to Lucy's table. //why are you telling me this?//

Lucy shrugs. "I don't even know. I just...I just wanted to get it off my chest. If I tell anyone back at base, they get all up in my business again about how I'm too young and I shouldn't be doing dangerous missions, but _you_ don't care about that. If you tried to stop me from doing missions, I'd just punch you."

She _is_ young, Good Cop thinks. Barely into her twenties. Not a child, obviously, and not the youngest in the resistance either, but younger than someone who's in the thick of the resistance should be.

But that's not what she wants to hear. Good Cop has never known Lucy well enough to know _what_ she wants to hear, but he knows she has enough people telling her why she's not qualified to do the things she already does. He doesn't need to add to that.

Good Cop sits down next to her. //I don't mind you coming here. you're welcome if you ever need a break. I'd prefer fewer stab wounds than last time, though.//

That startles a laugh out of Lucy. "Yeah, I'll try not to, but you know. No promises."

Good Cop nudges Lucy's last uneaten tart towards her and writes, //being scared doesn't make you weak, Lucy.//

Lucy pauses mid-bite and gives Good Cop an incredulous look.

//you'd have to be an idiot to be anything but scared in a time like this,// Good Cop writes. //last I checked, you're not an idiot.//

"I froze up. Seems pretty idiotic to me."

//it happens. if you're scared of doing it again, learn what you have to so you won't. it might still happen. learn from it and move on.//

Lucy scoffs. "Like that's _easy."_

//it's not. it's hard. it might be the hardest thing you ever do,// Good Cop writes. //I'm scared, too. some people can defeat their fears, I'm not one of them. but there are things I have to do even if I'm terrified.

//you asked how I do it. find what scares you. know your limits. learn yourself. that way your fears won't drag you down. and if you need someone to talk to, I'll listen.//

There's a long pause, and Lucy looks up at Good Cop with an expression approaching relieved. "...Thanks, Quinn."

* * *

23.

Jean closes the bakery for a week to visit their family out in Middle Zealand. Since crossing the walls is still somewhere in the vicinity of astoundingly and illegal, Good Cop's not sure exactly how they plan to do that, but he figures it's better not to ask.

So of course, Good Cop takes the week off, too. After all of the holiday season orders for cookies and cakes and pies and other assorted treats, he needs it.

He spends most of Christmas up in his loft, reading old books with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Nobody comes calling, which is expected. Other people have family and friends to spend time with and he's not deluded enough to think he's anywhere on anyone's Christmas list here and now.

The loneliness starts to set in somewhere around late afternoon, because, well.

He's never had Christmas alone.

Before, there'd always been Bad Cop, and they would do something nice for the day to relax--that much, even Business couldn't take away from them. After, there had been Ma and Pa, steady as ever with hot cocoa and warm food and...

And now it's just him. Him and his big silent loft above the big silent bakery.

He pulls his phone out and considers texting Bad Cop, but Bad Cop is spending the day with, well, him, and he can't interrupt that. As much of an impression he must have made in the past few months, it's never going to compare to the 'real' Good Cop.

He lies there, staring at his home screen for a long time, with its cutesy little police badge background, and he wonders if he can afford to do something _incredibly_ stupid. His thumb hovers over the icon for a long time as he deliberates if the risk is worth it, and he decides, okay. He's lonely, he's gone through so much these past few months, and it's Christmas. He can do something for himself, just this once.

He calls home.

It rings three times before Good Cop starts to have second thoughts, and just as he's about to end the call, Ma picks up and says, _"Hello?"_

She sounds exactly like she did the last time he talked to her. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend, just for a moment, that he's home again and nothing has changed.

"Hey, Ma," he says, and it's so weak that it's not even a whisper.

 _"Hello?"_ Ma says again. _"Is anyone there?"_

"Merry Christmas," Good Cop tries to say, but with his voice it's nothing but empty air.

On the other side, he hears Pa say something in the background, and Ma says, _"No, I think someone called us on accident,"_ then, _"Well, mistakes happen, dear."_

She hangs up.

Good Cop considers dialing again, but doesn't. He won't get any different results, and he heard their voices. They're okay. That's enough.

Afterwards, he determinedly sleeps his way through to the new year and tells himself it's just the illness.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good Cop meets a familiar face, and plans get derailed.

24.

New Year's brings overcast days and temperatures that dip into the single digits and Jean stops in for a little while just to say hello.

"This is for you," they say, holding out something that's long and thin and wrapped in brown paper. "Mallory says it's a traditional gift, but I think someone just botched making a wizard staff and tried to cover it up."

Good Cop unwraps the package. It's a handsome, if slightly crooked walking stick with a smooth russet finish and a simple twisting design trailing up the shaft. There's a leaf motif carved into the handle and a leather thong fastened around the collar and it altogether seems like too nice of a gift for someone like him.

"It's carved out of rowan. For good luck on all your travels or something," Jean continues. "And if it doesn't do that, it's at least solid enough to give someone a good smack."

 _{I have a crowbar,}_ Good Cop signs.

Jean shrugs. "Well, now you have a walking stick, too. You can probably use it for its intended purpose, considering you've been looking ready to faint for the last month."

Good Cop tries to protest, but Jean shakes their head and says, "Quinn. Take it. You don't have to use it if you don't want to, but you've been a huge help around here these last few months. Just let me give you the stick."

Well, it _is_ a nice stick and Jean's not wrong about his health. So he loops the thong around his wrist and gives the stick a few experimental waves. It's a comfortable weight and clearly sturdy enough to support his weight. Practical with good craftsmanship. He can appreciate that, and it's not like a little good fortune wouldn't go amiss, either.

 _{Thanks, Jean,}_ he signs.

He thinks he'll get some use out of this.

* * *

25.

It's about half a week into the new year that the inevitable finally happens.

Good Cop is on his way back from the grocery store with two pounds of onions, a bunch of cauliflower, a five pound bag of rice, a bag of spinach, four tomatoes, and a chocolate bar when he reaches the bakery and sees Bad Cop standing in front of the locked door.

He's not sure what to make of that, because Bad Cop usually texts if he's going to show up outside of business hours, and he hasn't, which means that something's different today. Good Cop hurries along in case it's something urgent, and when the rustling of his bags is close enough for Bad Cop to hear, he turns towards Good Cop, and...

It's not Bad Cop. It's. It's him.

Good Cop, _past_ Good Cop smiles and says, "Ah, there you are! I was worried something had happened to you."

Yeah, Good Cop thinks. Fat chance of that. He knows himself and there's no way this wasn't planned specifically to put him as off-balance as possible. The worst part is, it's working.

He has absolutely _no idea_ how to deal with himself.

"Here," Younger Good Cop says, and it's just _so weird_ to hear his voice coming out of someone else's mouth. "Let me help you with your bags. It's so cold out, you must want to get inside as soon as possible."

Good Cop firmly does _not_ let go of his bags as he fumbles for his keys and unlocks the door. Whatever his younger self is trying to pull, he's not having any of it.

He unlocks the bakery and shows his younger self in. He also locks the door behind them, something that does _not_ slip his younger self's notice.

Good Cop gestures for him to take a seat, then goes to put his groceries away. He takes his time about it, just to buy himself time to _think._

He would trust Bad Cop with his life in a second, but he doesn't trust himself at _all._ He's underhanded and sly and manipulative and he'll lie and misdirect whenever it suits his needs, and he'll hide it all behind that smile. He knows. He's been there.

The real question is whether he's just here to test the waters or something even more drastic. Goodness knows he's done worse things for Bad Cop's sake.

Good Cop takes a deep breath and goes back to meet his guest. It's only polite, after all.

When he does, he sees his younger self looking around the bakery like he's never been there--which he hasn't, Good Cop supposes. Seeing things through B's eyes isn't the same as seeing them through his own. His younger self's eyes flick from the counters to the electronics bench to Jean's new decorations hanging around the windows, undoubtedly cataloguing everything for future reference.

The first thing Good Cop does is check under the table. He wouldn't put it past himself to place a camera or other recording device in the short time he was left alone. Good Cop doesn't find anything, but the expression on his younger self's face falters slightly as he gets back up--he's not used to people treating him with suspicion.

Good. He deserves to be just as off-balance as Good Cop feels.

"I suppose I should introduce myself," Younger Good Cop says. "I'm Good Cop. I work with Bad Cop and--"

 _{I know,}_ Good Cop signs. 

"Ah. Well, I've been excited to meet you, Quinn. You work here at the bakery?"

 _{Don't act like you haven't already researched everything you could about me,}_ Good Cop signs.

Younger Good Cop's brows draw together. "Sorry, my sign language isn't as good as Bad Cop's. Could you try signing that differently?"

Good Cop's mouth twists. He can believe that his younger self isn't as proficient at sign language--he hasn't had the practice, after all, but... _{Are you telling me B isn't translating my signs for you?}_

There's a few seconds' pause, then Younger Good Cop's face shifts--so subtly that even Good Cop wouldn't see it if he wasn't specifically watching for it--into something _sharper._ More cautious. If this whole situation didn't have him on guard already, the implicit admission that Good Cop knows about his and Bad Cop's arrangement would do it.

Good Cop nods to himself as he takes the opposite seat. That answers his question, then. Bad Cop is watching and communicating, and his younger self isn't faking his lack of proficiency in sign language. Anything he says will have to go through Bad Cop.

 _{Why are you here?}_ Good Cop asks.

"I wanted to meet you, of course," Younger Good Cop says. "You've been spending so much time with Bad Cop, it's only polite that we got to know each other, too."

As if. He only ever pulls the politeness card when he means something he can't say out loud.

Whatever. It's not like Good Cop is clueless. His younger self is suspicious--who wouldn't be?--and he wants to make sure there's no threat to Bad Cop. It's a good sign, in a perverse sort of way. He wouldn't do this if Bad Cop didn't actually trust 'Quinn', at least a little.

Good Cop leans back in his seat and crosses his arms. His younger self wants him to say something--anything, so he can grab on and extract information for all it's worth. So Good Cop won't speak first. That's just asking for trouble.

There's a long, heavy silence and his younger self winds his fingers together, then unwinds them. "I feel like we've gotten to a bad start," he says softly. "I know you don't know much about me, but I just want to talk, that's all. A friendly chat, is that so bad?"

_{You want to know if I'm going to hurt B.}_

His younger self doesn't confirm or deny it, just raises his eyebrows.

_{I'm not.}_

His younger self smiles, bright and sincere and absolutely a hundred percent fake--Good Cop had almost forgotten he used to do that all the time. "Well, that's good!" his younger self says. "Bad Cop is a very close friend of mine. I care about him very much, and it's clear that you do, too. It's just...it's natural that we should try to get to know each other better, isn't it?"

Good Cop stares at him impassively.

There's another pause, and his younger self sighs. "Quinn, I know Bad Cop hasn't talked about me, and that this meeting is out of the blue, but I really don't want to hurt you or anything. There's no need for all of this mistrust," his younger self says, his eyes wide behind his glasses.

And _wow,_ if _that's_ how he looks when he makes that face, no wonder he could get people to cave so easily all the time. Unfortunately for his past self, Good Cop already knows he's the furthest thing from innocent.

 _{Why not?}_ Good Cop signs. _{You don't trust me.}_

"That's not true," his younger self says. "Would I come here to talk to you if I didn't trust you?"

 _{You're here, aren't you?}_ Good Cop replies. His younger self opens his mouth to protest, but Good Cop cuts him off with a sharp motion of his hand. He's had his time to think; he's ready to go on the offensive. He won't get another chance to talk directly to himself before everything goes down--and he's going to make the most of it.

If his younger self thinks the only problem to worry about is some person trying to make nice with B, he's got another thing coming.

 _{I haven't talked to B in a while,}_ Good Cop signs. _{How is he?}_

Younger Good Cop blinks at the shift in topic. "He's doing well. He got some rest over the holiday season."

_{That's good. Has he talked to you much lately?}_

His younger self's eyes narrow slightly, just for a moment. "What do you mean?"

 _{Bad Cop is quiet, is all. I worry he doesn't have enough people to talk to.}_ Good Cop levels his gaze with himself. _{He pushes them away when he needs them most.}_

Instantly, his younger self winces and reaches for the back of his head as if struck. "Sorry," he says as he shakes his head and blinks to refocus. "I, um, didn't catch that last bit."

Behind his mask, Good Cop smiles. Of course Bad Cop wouldn't want to translate that. If he's been suppressing Good Cop for as long as Good Cop suspects he has, he definitely doesn't want the secret to come out. Especially not like this.

Good Cop shrugs and signs, slowly and clearly, _{Is B hiding things from you?}_

The reaction this time is stronger--Younger Good Cop grabs at his head and his eyes glaze over and there's just enough time for him to say, "--B, _what--"_ before his face twists and suddenly it's Bad Cop sitting there instead. His eyes don't seem to focus and his hands twitch as he visibly fights for control until he reaches up and tears the glasses off of his face and turns on Good Cop.

 _"What_ are you trying to pull?" he snarls.

 _{He deserves to know,}_ Good Cop signs. _{Are you suppressing him again--}_

Bad Cop lunges forwards and _grabs_ Good Cop's wrist, hard. "Don't talk to me about Good Cop. You don't know _anything_ about him."

Good Cop tries to free his arm, just so he can respond, but Bad Cop's got better leverage and his grip is like a vice.

"Why do you _think_ I'm doing all of this?" Bad Cop roars, and there's something in his eyes that's still slightly between here and there--it's easy to suppress Good Cop when he doesn't realize it's happening, but there's no way he isn't fighting back now. "Do you think I want to push kids off of roofs and beat people until they scream? Do you think I _like_ getting thrown into walls by Business when he thinks I'm not working fast enough? You think that's my idea of _fun?"_

Bad Cop twists Good Cop's arm slightly further than his joints can comfortably allow and Good Cop winces in pain.

"No!" Bad Cop shouts. "But if I don't, Business will kill him!" He grabs Good Cop by the collar and his voice drops, low and dangerous. "You wouldn't understand. Good Cop is better than you'll ever be, and I'm going to keep him safe, no matter what it _takes."_ And with a heave, he throws Good Cop to the ground.

Good Cop and his chair go tumbling across the linoleum with a crash. There's the sound of chair legs scraping on the floor and a heavy boot step and Good Cop flinches from it. He's never been scared of B, but right now, face-to-face with the full brunt of his anger and no way to escape, he just thinks he might be. 

"Don't forget your place," Bad Cop growls. "Now I have to go clean up your mess. Don't text me again."

There's another sound of footsteps and splintering wood as Bad Cop forces the bakery lock open. There's a crashing sound, then silence.

Good Cop tries to go after him, but he's set upon by another coughing attack that shakes his entire body and puts him back on the floor. It's a long time before he can get up to even close the door, and by that point, Bad Cop is long gone.

* * *

He doesn't text Bad Cop.

There's no need to. He knows himself, and he'd never let something like that slide--not if it was bad enough for Bad Cop to force control, and even Bad Cop, as stubborn as he is, can't keep him down forever, not if Good Cop is fighting back. His younger self will figure out the message.

It's out of his hands now, but he knows he can trust his younger self to do what's best for Bad Cop.

Somehow, that doesn't feel like as much of a victory as it should.

* * *

26.

The door problem is solved pretty easily. Lucy, with her Master Building abilities, puts it all back together after closing the next day and it barely takes thirty seconds to make the lock and splintered door frame as good as new. Good Cop gives her a muffin for the trouble.

Other problems are not so easily solved.

"I haven't seen your brother around," Jean says, about two weeks after the confrontation. "Did something happen?"

 _{Family things,}_ Good Cop replies.

"Ah," Jean says. They don't press.

Good Cop does try to reestablish contact once, texting about a week after everything goes down, because he knows how Bad Cop is sometimes, and how guilty he feels after blowing up at someone and how bad he is at initiating any sort of communication. The text goes unanswered for three days, until Bad Cop sends an irate, _What part of 'Don't text me again' didn't you understand?_

And that's the end of that. After what he said and what Bad Cop did, Bad Cop has plenty of his own issues to work out with _his_ Good Cop, and trying to make contact again can really only exacerbate that.

So Good Cop does what he normally does when something horrible happens, and moves on.

Mostly, he finds his life a lot...colder after Bad Cop goes. He only has maybe two and a half people that he regularly talks to in this time, and Bad Cop was one of them. Without him, there's fewer conversations, fewer warm meals, fewer...feelings. It's harder to get through all of the bad things like the winter storms and the sickness when he loses contact with one of his only anchors, and he mostly deals with it by sinking into apathy. There is, after all, always work to do, and keeping himself busy makes it so he doesn't have to think about losing Bad Cop for the second time.

At least Bad Cop is still _alive_ this time, he thinks, and it's mostly that thought that keeps him working, keeps him keeping up appearances. Bad Cop may not want to talk to him right now (or possibly ever again), but he's still in danger, and that means Good Cop can't give up yet.

There are still plans to work out, up to getting the Piece of Resistance and breaking into Octan afterwards, and dealing with Business and his beloved _artifacts_ afterwards. If he can't work with Bad Cop on this, that's fine. He'll work around him.

Bad Cop might not want Good Cop in his corner, but he's getting him, whether he likes it or not.

* * *

27.

Benny shows up at the bakery towards the end of January to pick up his helmet.

"Yeah, sorry," Benny says with a nervous laugh as he takes it back. "I didn't mean to leave it here so long, but you guys were closed for Christmas and then some things came up and I never got around to it."

Good Cop figured Benny had just forgotten--it was Benny, after all--but he supposes that works, too.

"This is a pretty neat place, y'know?" Benny says as he walks around the bakery. He keeps his feet mostly on the ground, thankfully, so Good Cop doesn't have to worry about pulling him down from the ceiling. "It's really cozy. And all this!" he says, leaning over Good Cop's electronics table. "This is really cool stuff, do you do electronics?"

Not so much lately, Good Cop thinks. Ever since the fatigue started setting in a month ago, his hands tended to shake, which didn't mix well with a soldering iron. He'd ruined three circuit boards and burned himself twice before giving it up as a bad job.

He doesn't say so, though. He's not in the mood to talk, and even if he was, his hands are thoroughly occupied with kneading pie crusts. They got a rush special order for six fruit pies by the end of tomorrow, and he's not looking forward to peeling all of the apples.

There's a long silence as Benny looks at the scattered disassembled objects on Good Cop's table, then to the tables and windows and pastries in the display case. "Snazzypants, or, uh, Wyldstyle I guess she's going by now, she told me what you did," Benny says when the silence stretches on too long. "The trick with the oxygen was neat, I'm not sure I would have thought of that. And like, also, it probably saved my life. Which is also cool."

Good Cop glances up at him. Benny looks mostly okay, but he's slightly limping still, so the stab wound is probably still healing, or there was more damage that Good Cop wasn't aware of. Either way, Benny seems like he'll survive. Lucy had said so, of course, but it's good to see it in person.

"You know, you're really not that bad," Benny says. "The guys back at base say all sorts of weird things about you, you know? Like you're some kind of prophet, or you can see the future or something."

That makes Good Cop pause in kneading his dough to give Benny the look that deserves.

"Hey!" Benny says. "I'm not the one who came up with it, but you have to admit it makes sense, right? Like there's Vitruvius, he's blind, and he can kind of maybe see the future, too! Maybe there's a prophet out there who's deaf, and you'll get the whole hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil set." He looks down, laughing nervously. "Sorry, that was probably bad. Shouldn't have said that."

Good Cop shrugs and goes back to kneading. He doesn't really care what people think about him or his inability to speak. It's just frustrating-- _very_ frustrating--to not be able to communicate, that's all. It makes him feel like a ghost, sometimes, able to see what everyone thinks and unable to make his own opinions heard.

"But the people back at base think all sorts of whacked-out stuff, you know?" Benny says. "Ever since you did the tango with Bad Cop. There's this, like, photograph of you going around, with a police helmet and sunglasses drawn on? And, I mean, next to a picture of Bad Cop, you a little bit look the same? Or at least, that's what my buddies say. I don't even know when it started going around, because the first time I heard it was after I woke up after getting stabbed."

Good Cop rolls his pie crust into a ball and wraps it up to chill, mostly so Benny doesn't see his face--or what little portion of it is visible, anyways. He really hopes that nobody's made the connection between him and Bad Cop--that would make his life harder, for sure.

"I don't really see it, honestly," Benny continues. "And also, like, Bad Cop's kind of huge and you're really skinny. I think I heard someone trying to say you're Bad Cop's criminal overlord cousin or something and that's why we haven't seen you before last year."

Criminal? While that's probably objectively true, Good Cop can't help but take some umbrage to that. It's not like the Master Builders aren't criminals themselves.

At least the Master Builders are still off the mark. As long as rumors stay rumors, there's really no need to address them.

"Oh, and one of them told me you breathe fire!"

Yeah, Good Cop thinks, his secret is probably safe.

* * *

28.

It's the beginning of February when Good Cop goes through his notes and realizes he has a problem.

Now that getting Bad Cop's trust is effectively a wash, he has to move on to the next step in his plan as soon as he can, which is destroying the Kragle before Business has a chance to finish it, and _that_ means getting the Piece of Resistance sooner rather than later. The thing is, it's _right in the middle of downtown Bricksburg._

He personally managed public security and propaganda for years and he knows there's _no way_ he's getting that far downtown without some routine security trying to flag him down and check his papers that he _doesn't have,_ and this far into Business's regime, there's no way for that to end well. He can't even do some sort of stealthy in-and-out because his physical condition won't allow it, and also he only vaguely knows where the Piece of Resistance is since they'd found Emmet with it on the cameras some time afterwards. Who knows how far Emmet could have convulsed his way from where he originally found it?

He needs time to grab the Piece. Time to check out the area, run some reconnaissance, and figure out escape routes, because the second he grabs the Piece, all bets are off. After all, he might be _pretty_ sure Business's Kragle spraying machine isn't finished yet, but he has to be ready if it is.

The first step, of course, is actually getting in, and the easiest way to get into the city isn't to sneak in. It's to _walk_ in. And he can only do that if he has papers and a substantial electronic trail.

He really only knows one person with experience in illegal immigration and emigration, so the next day, he goes to Jean.

 _{I need to go downtown,}_ he tells them.

Jean pauses. "Why?"

 _{I'm looking for something important,}_ Good Cop replies. _{I'm the only one who can get it,}_ he adds when Jean doesn't answer.

Jean sighs. "Quinn, I know you don't have papers. You don't have _any_ records, which is impressive in of itself, but they need ID every three blocks down there. It's almost impossible for you to go downtown."

Good Cop raises his eyebrows. _{Almost?}_

There's a pause and Jean leans on the counter. "I...may or may not know someone. If you're working from no records at all, and you are, it's easier to put you into the system. It's cleaner, anyways. You can...fake a relocation from one of the earlier years, coming in from Old West or some other realm out there from when the walls were going up and the paperwork was a little sloppier. But to do that, you need a family relation to someone in Bricksburg, and if you had that, you wouldn't have this problem right now."

Good Cop pauses. That's all accurate, as far as he knows. Families and their histories tend to be grouped together in the databases for ease of computing, and because of the strict no-immigration policies between realms, it's effectively impossible to make a completely new one out of nowhere. Editing them, however, is easy enough. New kids and marriages and stuff occur all the time.

 _{Can't I claim a relation?}_ Good Cop asks.

"You _could,"_ Jean says. "But you're going to have to stay with someone and we're talking about Bricksburg citizens. Do you really think there's anyone who wouldn't get the slightest bit suspicious if a new family member waltzes into their apartment? Or wouldn't tell their friends about their mysterious new cousin?"

It's true, getting in under the radar under those circumstances would be a bit difficult. Bricksburg citizens aren't particularly suspicious, but they're very strict on protocol. It's just about standard for them to know everything about their families and their friend's families and to report any possible discrepancies, just to avoid this sort of thing.

Except...

 _{I think I know someone,}_ Good Cop says. _{And I know his ID number and address.}_

Jean's brows go up, but they say, "All right, if you're sure. I'll talk to my friend, and I'll see what I can do. Who's this person you've got in mind?"

Good Cop takes out his notepad and carefully writes down the information for one Emmet Brickowski.

* * *

29.

"What's with you?"

Good Cop looks up at Lucy, who's leaning over her notebook filled with doodles. He gestures at himself questioningly.

"No, the person behind you-- _yes,_ you, Quinn," she says. "Why have you been so weird lately?"

Has he been weird lately? If he has, he's certainly not aware of it.

"You've been all..." She makes a wavy sort of gesture with her fingers. "Like, kind of staring at the walls and sighing a lot, but, you know. Metaphorically."

Good Cop isn't really sure how to respond to that. He doesn't think he's been doing a lot of sighing, metaphorically or not, but he's been proven to have a complete lack of perspective in the past and Lucy isn't the kind of person to bring something up if she doesn't mean it.

Lucy scratches the back of her neck nervously. "I mean, I know we don't actually talk that much and you don't want to work with the resistance, but I...want you to be okay? And, uh. I'm not really--not really good at this sort of thing, but like, if you want to talk to me, I'm, I mean, you can. I'm cool with that."

Oh. That's...unexpectedly sweet. He never thought he'd see the day when Lucy would offer _him_ condolences.

Lucy looks down and folds her hands together. "Unless, you know, that was weird and you don't want to," she says, softer.

Good Cop shakes his head and sits down next to her. It's not after closing yet, but she's the only one around at the moment, so he has time to take a break. He takes his notebook out and writes, //it's okay. I appreciate it, Lucy.//

She gives him a look, then asks, "So, um, did something happen?"

//my brother and I got into a fight a few weeks ago,// Good Cop writes. //we haven't talked since.//

"You have a brother?" Lucy asks.

Good Cop nods. //I love him very much.//

"Oh, wow," Lucy says. "I...what did you fight about?"

//I'm worried he'll do something stupid and get himself hurt,// Good Cop writes. //he thinks he knows what he's doing.//

"Oh, geez. And he hasn't talked to you?" Lucy asks. "Isn't that really bad?"

//it's okay,// Good Cop writes. //he has someone to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid.//

"But...what about you?"

Good Cop glances up at her.

"I mean, are you gonna be okay?" Lucy asks. "If I had a...brother who wasn't talking to me, that'd be pretty rough, so like..."

//I'll be fine,// Good Cop writes. //I'm just worried.//

Lucy gives him a look that clearly articulates how much she buys that. "If you say so."

//really.//

"Well, if you're ever not...'fine', you can talk to me, okay?" Lucy says. "And, um, I know you still aren't really down to work with us, but if you want to come around to the base sometime, you can. Vitruvius has been complaining that he hasn't had any of your bear claws lately, so you'd probably have plenty to talk about."

Good Cop snorts. //he's blind and I can't talk.//

Lucy huffs in mock exasperation. "Right, that's true. I guess you'd have to figure something out, then. You should bring some of your pastries around sometime, though. They're really good."

Good Cop lets the conversation turn away from him and they talk about things like drawings and snowball fights and music until closing.

It's all right.

* * *

30.

Good Cop gets a text at five in the morning, well before sunrise on a bleary day in early February.

_> > how did you know_

Good Cop squints at the text. It's from a number he doesn't recognize.

<< who is this?

There's a pause, then,

_> > you know who it is_

_> > how did you know what bad cop was doing to me_

Good Cop straightens at the sight of that. He hadn't thought his younger self would _want_ to make contact, but here it is. He texts back.

<< this isn't your phone.

_> > bad cop is sleeping_

Oh. That's...surprising.

That's underhanded, even for himself, to keep this correspondence under the table like this. He didn't think his past self would go this far, but if the problem is as big as he suspects, maybe there's no other course of action.

His younger self texts again.

_> > answer the question please_

<< I can't.

There's a pause that lasts almost an entire minute, then,

_> > why did you tell me_

_> > you knew bad cop wouldnt like it_

<< you deserved to know.

Good Cop hesitates, then adds,

<< b needs you to be there for him. I'm not enough.

_> > dont call him b_

<< I'm scared he'll get himself killed.

_> > i am too_

There's another long pause, long enough that Good Cop goes back to slicing dough for the braided danishes. It's not until about twenty minutes later that he gets another text.

_> > i couldnt hear much but he said he did it to protect me_

_> > didnt he_

He must mean during that confrontation, after Bad Cop forced control. If his younger self couldn't even tell what was being said, Bad Cop must have been pushing him down _hard._

<< yes.

_> > how was pushing me away supposed to protect me_

<< I don't know. I don't get it either.

<< don't be too hard on him. he makes stupid choices but he loves you more than anything.

<< I don't want anything to happen to either of you.

_> > thought you didnt trust me_

<< I don't trust you with me.

<< but you'll take care of b. which is what matters.

_> > dont call him that_

_> > but thanks_

There's another pause that lasts about four minutes, then,

_> > bad cop will be up soon_

_> > im throwing the phone out_

_> > dont text this number again_

_> > sorry if i woke you_

<< take care of yourself.

_> > ill try_


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's not a lot Good Cop won't do to save Bad Cop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emetophobia warning in this chapter.

31.

Good Cop tries not to think too hard about Business.

It's good life advice for every occasion, because, even two years after Bad Cop died, after everything Business has (or had, Good Cop supposes, now that he's effectively undone all of it with time magic) done to atone, Good Cop still gets the urge to wrap his fingers around Business's neck and _squeeze._

Good Cop wouldn't say he's a violent person, but Business always had a unique talent in bringing out that particular side of him.

The thing is, there was a time when Good Cop thought he might be able to forgive Business for everything--for the torture and interrogations, for trying to end the world, for murdering Bad Cop--but in the end, no matter how much Business was _sorry,_ the fact was, Business was free and Bad Cop was nothing but a cavernous void ripped out of Good Cop's mind. All the condolences and money in the world wouldn't change that. Maybe a good person could forgive Business even after all that, but Good Cop...

Good Cop, no matter what Bad Cop or anyone else says, has never been a good person.

He accepted Business's apologies and he kept his interactions civil, but he never forgave or forgot. He certainly can't afford to do so now, when the worst atrocities are still to come.

So the issue, as it were: after everything is done, after Good Cop destroys the Kragle, after Bad Cop is finally safe, something has to be done about Business. He can't be left to his own devices or he'll come back like a bad cockroach infestation, and even with Business's deadliest weapon neutralized, there's plenty of nasty tricks left over. That's a situation _no one_ will be happy with.

Back after Taco Tuesday, Good Cop had dealt with the issue by dragging up and publicly exposing all of Business's crimes for everyone to see--with the aftermath of the Kragle still fresh in everyone's mind, Business's fall from grace was swift and permanent. It was, in Good Cop's opinion, a just punishment. People deserved to know, after all, and anything Business got afterwards, he had coming.

The thing is, that won't work this time. Business was always a bit...unfortunate in his thinking in that other humans seemed to carry about as much significance to him as a colony of particularly large and verbose ants. He never thought about consequences or the fact that hurting people actually _hurts_ them instead of being a convenient 'press for screams' button. That much was clear when Business thought all his consequences would disappear if he ignored them long enough--up until he found out his scepter really _had_ killed Bad Cop. Permanently.

Which is really the problem. There's no way to get through to Business except through something that directly affects him, and Good Cop is _not_ going to let Bad Cop die a second death to prove some point they shouldn't have to make to a person they'd rather not interact with at all.

He knows Emmet said something to Business that made him _decide_ to stop destroying the world. Something about friends and being able to do cool things and maybe a thing about being a good person, but that doesn't help Good Cop in the least. Even if Good Cop could speak, there's no way he could ever make an inspiring speech to anyone, much less Business, about how anyone could be a good person. Not when he doesn't know what it takes to be one, and not when he's seen Business for long enough afterwards to know it's absolutely false.

Really, Good Cop thinks, there's no reason he can't just deal with Business the same way Business dealt with Bad Cop.

As the days pass without a workable solution, the idea becomes more and more appealing.

* * *

32.

Lucy visits more often since their talk, or maybe it just feels that way. Whether it's because she needs space from the Master Builders or because she actually enjoys talking to Good Cop, Good Cop isn't sure, but he appreciates her company nonetheless.

She extends her invitation to visit the Master Builder hideout a second time, and, well, now that he isn't talking to Bad Cop anymore, it's not like he gets out much. He accepts.

Lucy seems...happy about that.

After cleanup, she takes him out to a fabric shop about half a block away. It's just a short pop with her Master Builder abilities to spring the lock, and they're in.

"This is one of the entry points," Lucy says. "Over in the back room." She kneels to the ground and knocks a couple times on the floor, then gestures to it and says, "It's right here. Quinn, how about...you try opening it?"

What?

Good Cop stares at her. Lucy knows he isn't a Master Builder, and opening the tunnels is a hundred percent a Master Builder thing, pulling bricks apart and together again like water.

"I know, you're not a Master Builder, but...I mean, I wasn't always one, either," Lucy says. "Anyone can do it if they know how. Well, building isn't that easy, but opening a tunnel, anyone can do that."

Good Cop stands, frozen. The concepts of himself and Master Building aren't meant to intersect, that much he knows. He doesn't want to be anything like them.

"Just give it a shot," Lucy says. "Once, and I'll never bother you about it again."

Good Cop doesn't respond, just stares at the wood floor Lucy's pointing to. It's scratched over a bit, but not enough to imply it's constantly torn out for Master Builders to pop in and out of the tunnels.

"Quinn," Lucy says. "I just...want to make sure you can. Like, if someone's coming after you and you need to hide, I...I don't want you to get caught."

That makes Good Cop look at her. Back in his time and place, he couldn't have been made to _consider_ Master Building on threat of death. But here and now, Lucy has a point. If someone, Business's robots or anyone else, is coming after him, he won't be able to run for long, not with his sickness. But if he can hide, even if it needs...Master Building abilities, then he's just that much more likely to survive. With what he knows is coming, with _Bad Cop's life_ on the line, he needs every edge he can get.

He swallows the bile in the back of his throat and walks over to where Lucy is kneeling.

She nods at him and says, "Put your hand here."

Good Cop kneels stiffly beside her and sets his right hand flat on the ground. The wood is rough and worn and slightly dusty.

"Good," Lucy says. "Every time you do a build, you have to think of what you're trying to make." She reaches over and puts her hand on Good Cop's shoulder. "And you have to _see_ where the lines join so you can take it apart. I'll walk you through it this time."

Heartbeat pounding, Good Cop shoots a panicked glance at Lucy, and then he _feels_ it.

It's an electric sense, like something hooking deep into the base of his neck and pulling down, down, down. It reverberates down his spine, into his limbs, down to the tips of his fingers against the wood, and there's a flash against the back of his eyes that--

He blinks through tears, tries to clear it out, get it away, but slowly, it resolves into bright blue _lines._

It's like a circuit board of blue-white wires burned into his eyes, of join lines where the wood splits, where the brickwork cleaves and cracks, where the the drywall folds and crumbles--

"You've got it," Lucy says. "And you want to open the tunnel. All you have to do is picture it and _push._ "

Hardly breathing, Good Cop bunches his fingers and...pushes.

Power _swells_ beneath him, so horribly familiar, yet alien as it rips through him, shoots down through his limbs, down to his fingers and ripples out into the ground. It's quiet for only a moment before it lifts, roaring in his ears, pulling at him as the wood beneath him creaks and _crumbles_ and he can feel Lucy yelling something, but there's a vortex of violent power around him, surging in time with his racing heartbeat.

It bursts outwards, carrying boards and stone and who knows what else, and there's blue lines in his eyes and he just can't _see_ \--

There's something that feels like a rubber band snapping against his hand and a rushing in his ears and then, all at once, it's gone.

Everything is black.

When Good Cop opens his eyes, he's half standing, and Lucy's holding him up. A wave of nausea crashes through him and he manages to pull his mask down just in time to puke on the floor.

He coughs and doubles over, falling out of Lucy's grip and onto cold concrete. There's white dancing in his vision and his mind feels like it's been hollowed out. His skin still feels like it's buzzing, like there's something foreign pushing through him like some kind of invasive parasite, burrowed in his bones.

He tries to flex his fingers and realizes he can't feel his right hand. He takes a shuddering breath and looks at it, just to make sure it's still there--it is, and about as normal as it always looks, but it's numb, completely numb except for that electric sensation at the tips of his fingers where he'd touched the wood.

He collapses to the ground and rolls to his back, looking up only to see the outer rim of the crater he's opened. It's huge and ragged around the edges, like a ripped, festering wound.

I did that, he thinks. The thought makes him feel even sicker than he already does.

He tries to stand, but his legs feel like lead and his head feels like an overfilled balloon. He feels pressure under his arms, pulling him upwards, and Lucy hauls him up to his feet.

"Well, you did pretty good except for that part at the end," Lucy says in a slightly shaky tone Good Cop is nowhere near capable of interpreting. "Come on, I'll fix this up, then let's go talk to Vitruvius."

Good Cop lets her take him to see Vitruvius, trying and utterly failing to hide how shaken he is the whole way there. He manages the presence of mind to at least pull his mask back up before anyone sees him, but not much else.

Vitruvius offers tea, and it somewhat helps ease the electricity crackling in Good Cop's skin, but the numbness in his hand remains.

Lucy doesn't ask him to try and open the tunnel again when they leave.

* * *

33.

The middle of February brings one of the harshest snow storms Good Cop has ever experienced in the city, and along with it, a fever that has him bedridden and barely able to move.

It's all he can do to drop a note to let Jean know he's barely fit to stand, much less work before he passes out on the floor halfway between the ladder and his futon with the taste of blood in the back of his throat.

When he wakes up again, he feels absolutely wretched, but he's on his futon again, which means Jean was worried enough to check on him. He blinks to clear his vision and notices that there's a medium-sized box next to him. He's too exhausted to check what's in it, but he assumes Jean left it there for him.

He goes back to sleep.

When he wakes up, he finds the box is full of food like sandwiches and snacks and a few pastries Good Cop can only assume are the day-olds. It's nothing glamorous, but it helps get him through the next three days that he mostly spends feverishly dipping in and out of consciousness and coughing up blood.

On the fourth day, he's lucid enough to go down the ladder to the bakery, but only just.

"Absolutely not," Jean says when Good Cop tries to check the back room for ingredients. "You're still swaying on your feet, you can't be working."

And so, Good Cop gets shooed back into his loft to rest.

He wakes an indeterminate amount of time later to shouting on his police radio. A glance at his watch tells him it's one in the morning, and there's Bad Cop's voice crackling through the speaker, shouting for backup--

Good Cop grabs the radio and listens again.

_"--calling all reinforcements to point Bravo One Five, twenty-two hostiles, four are known Master Builders! Proceed with caution--"_

Hostile?

That's...that's not right. Master Builders _run_ from Bad Cop, they don't _fight_ him. Not after the first year or so, once they realized the risk just wasn't worth it.

_"--defensive positions, fire at will, I repeat, reinforcements to point Bravo One Fi--"_

He's cut off by a sharp bang and the transmission cuts to static. That's...a bad sign.

Good Cop gets to his feet and pulls on his coat as quickly as he can manage, which is, unfortunately, not very quickly at all. His body feels stiff and his head feels like it's, if not spinning, at least revolving fairly quickly. He can already hear Jean telling him that he's in no state to move, much less go out into the snow, but if Bad Cop is in trouble, he can't stay here.

If memory serves, point B-15 is a little more than two blocks away from the bakery. As long as nothing happens to him, he should make it in time. He doesn't think about what will happen if he doesn't.

After a moment of consideration, he grabs Bad Cop's blaster and activates it. The battery's half dry from sitting around for the last four months, but it's more than enough.

He primes it and leaves.

* * *

There's something about walking in a snowstorm with a fever that makes two blocks feel like twenty miles. Good Cop doesn't feel entirely lucid, with his face against the cold and wind and his legs threatening to give out under him, and nothing to keep him grounded but a walking stick in his right hand and a hot blaster in his left. He isn't even entirely sure if he's going the right way, but after some interminable stumbling, he sees flashing lights and hears shouting and realizes he's there.

They're fighting. He can hear steel crashing against steel, smell ozone from blaster fire in the air, feel the telltale crackle of bricks being torn from their foundations--

This...isn't supposed to happen. It hadn't happened before, there's no way he could have missed something this big. The way the Master Builders are going at it, they're going to tear the entire block down, and for all of this, Good Cop has no idea _why._

He watches the chaos, and it takes a few minutes for his brain to catch up to his eyes and realize that the _movement_ of the battle is all wrong. The Master Builders are surrounding a building, fighting robots as they come in from the outside, and Bad Cop is nowhere to be seen. The Master Builders could easily break the line and run, but they're holding their ground, like...

Like they're trying to stop the reinforcements from getting through. 

Good Cop looks at the building. Bad Cop has to be trapped somewhere in there. The Master Builders could rip the walls down if they wanted, of course, but Good Cop thinks they wouldn't dare--it's one of their safe-houses, and undoubtedly right on top of their little tunnel system. 

It's not really so much of a battle as a _siege,_ and it doesn't take a genius to know that in a fight between twenty plus Master Builders and Bad Cop's robots, the robots are going to lose. They'll buy time, for sure--they'd gladly fight to the death for Bad Cop--but without Bad Cop on the radio to direct them, there's only so much they can do before their numbers run out. After that, it's only a matter of time before the Master Builders gather enough people to grab Bad Cop, and what they'd do to him? Good Cop isn't inclined to speculate.

The solution, then, is clear. He needs to break the Master Builder's line so Bad Cop can escape. _How_ exactly he'll do that when he's shaking and barely able to think straight, he doesn't know. Carefully, he loops around to an alleyway and makes his way up a fire escape for a better vantage point.

It's really just Good Cop's luck that there's already a Master Builder on the roof, keeping watch. Fortunately, with all of the noise, they don't hear Good Cop behind them and it's simple enough to stun them with a shot in the back.

The Master Builder drops like a sack of potatoes into the snow, and Good Cop steps over them to survey the fight.

Between torn-out lamps and heavy cloud cover, there's not a lot to see by except blaster fire and sparks. Even so, it's clear the ground is littered with debris and broken robots, half-covered in snow. The Master Builders are out in the open, with some archer and blaster types hanging in the back for cover fire. One of the Master Builders, one that appears to be part pirate and part very large robot looks to be shouting orders and directing the others. They roar something and snap two robots in half with a single kick. If anyone is the leader, it's them.

They're very bold to be out in the open and on the front lines, Good Cop thinks, especially when they're such a large target. He turns up the voltage on his blaster. Part-robots tend to need a stronger shot and if he ends up giving his position away, he's going to make sure it's worth it.

Most people think Good Cop can't shoot. It's true he almost never uses his blaster, but that's more because he isn't very good in a firefight than any sort of inexperience with the weapon itself. He has a harder time than Bad Cop keeping a cool head under fire, and his aim on short notice is garbage, to the point that shooting anyone further than ten feet away isn't worth it. Given time to properly prepare his shot, however, he's even better than Bad Cop--he's never missed.

He raises his blaster and lines up the shot. He takes his time about it--the visibility is abysmal even before he's seeing slightly double and pistols are easier to jar than rifles, especially when his right hand is still the slightest bit numb and his hands in general aren't as steady as they usually are.

When he's sure of his aim, he breathes in, holds it, then lets it out. He pulls the trigger.

The blast flashes bright red as it hits the Master Builder directly in the chest and they freeze for one incredibly long moment before creaking forwards and collapsing into the snow with a muffled crash. The rest of the battlefield seems to freeze, too, as Master Builders look at each other and at their fallen leader in what Good Cop can only assume is disbelief. Then someone breaks off to grab the pirate guy and the field explodes into movement again.

They don't seem to realize Good Cop is there yet.

Good. He'll take care of the Master Builder's ranged support to stop any counter-sniping. After that, the people guarding the entrances, and after that? He'll figure it out. Whether he takes enough of them out or they send people after him, it'll weaken the line enough for Bad Cop to make an escape.

He shakes his head and waits to ride out yet another wave of dizziness as he adjusts his voltage and primes his next shot.

One step at a time.

* * *

They discover him, of course. When people start dropping like flies in a strategically inconvenient manner, it's pretty indicative of a sniper. With blaster flash, it's only a matter of time before Good Cop mistimes a shot and gives his location away.

He gets five Master Builders down before that happens, though, and it's so obvious when they spot him that he has just enough time to get to the fire escape before Master Builders start pulling the roof out from under his feet.

Whatever issue they have with taking down Bad Cop's building, they clearly don't have it with this one.

He half-runs, half-trips down the metal stairs and his heart almost drops out of his feet when he slips on an icy step and almost goes tumbling down three stories. But he picks himself up, and continues down.

He's around the second story of stairs when he comes face-to-face with a Master Builder coming up to stop him.

They stop and do a double-take. "Q-Quinn?" Benny stammers.

Good Cop jabs him in the stomach with his walking stick and shoves past him down the stairs. He doesn't have time to talk.

Behind him, he vaguely hears Benny cough and sputter, "Wait!"

No, thank you.

There's two more Master Builders waiting on the ground and Good Cop runs straight at them, swinging at their knees as he pushes through. One of them drops in a burst of expletives, but the other dodges aside and grabs the back of Good Cop's coat and throws him into the snow.

Good Cop goes skidding across the street, and the impact--or maybe the fever--gives him stars in his eyes so badly it almost blacks out his vision. He hears footsteps and swings out blindly with his walking stick and when he feels the handle of it catch on something, he yanks back. The Master Builder's leg gives way, followed by the thud of someone falling into the snow.

Good Cop scrambles to his feet, and oh, his legs feel like matchsticks and his joints are frozen stiff from the cold and the ground feels like it's lurching beneath him, but he stumbles forwards--right into a wall. Leaning his weight against it, he follows it away from the sounds of fighting until it leads him into an alley and he can't hear anyone following behind him.

There's the sound of fighting again, but it's different now--more chaotic, more shouting. Good Cop can't tell much from it, but even when he's half-delirious from exhaustion and fever, he recognizes when Bad Cop's voice breaks through, ringing clear above all the noise.

Good Cop collapses against the wall and thinks, good. Bad Cop got out.

Work done, Good Cop lets himself slip into unconsciousness.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good Cop, despite the extenuating circumstances, wakes up.

34.

Good Cop wakes up to somewhere warm and soft. If it weren't for the fact that he feels absolutely awful, he'd think he was dead.

"Stay still," Good Cop hears someone say. He's not sure who.

Good Cop opens his eyes and tries to see what's going on, but without his glasses and the fact that he's seeing double, he really can't make out much more than some pleasantly blue walls.

"Oh, for the--what part of 'stay still' is so hard to understand?" A rough hand presses down on Good Cop's shoulder and the voice says, "You're running 103 degrees. I can't believe you'd go out like this."

Good Cop snaps to attention. He _does_ recognize that voice.

"B?" he asks. But that can't be right. Isn't B dead?

There's a pause. "Your voice is still shot, huh?" Bad Cop--and it definitely _is_ Bad Cop--asks.

His voice? Ah, right, Good Cop blearily remembers. He can't talk because he got sick, and he got sick because he...got punched? And there's something about a wizard involved, but trying to figure out how that connects to everything else is a little more mental acrobatics than he's capable of right now.

"Go back to sleep," Bad Cop says. "I'll make sure nothing happens."

Well, B seems to know what's going on, so Good Cop sleeps.

* * *

He wakes up again sometime later feeling, not better, really, but more lucid, which is a start.

He sits up slowly and looks around. The room is dark, unfortunately, so he can't tell much. He seems to be on a mattress--an _actual_ mattress, not a futon or sofa cushion or rolled-up blanket--on the floor, and he's got what feels like at least three blankets on top of him.

His moving around must have made some noise, because there's a creaking sound of floorboards and Bad Cop flips the lights on.

"Good. You're awake." Bad Cop says. "It's about eleven at night. Your temperature's back down to 101 as of two hours ago, if you were wondering."

Down to 101? What in the world was it before?

"Yeah, that's right. You _are_ an idiot," Bad Cop says. He goes over to Good Cop and squats next to him. "Here. Your glasses."

Good Cop takes them with a nod and puts them on.

He seems to be in an apartment. Not the one he used to have, or the loft of the bakery, or any one that he recognizes, but one that seems pleasant enough, for all the signs that it's been abandoned for months. The walls are painted a nice robin egg blue and the floor is hardwood and the mattress he's on has a bed sheet that's a nice, muted red. Cheerful.

The mattress is soft. He'd almost forgotten what it was like to sleep on one. And he's not wearing his coat anymore--

He looks at the soft cotton Fun With Bricksburg PD! t-shirt he's wearing. This isn't his. Or, rather, it is, but not here or now, which means...

"Your clothes were soaked after you passed out in an alleyway full of snow," Bad Cop says dryly. "I did my best, but my clothes are too big for you, so I used some old promotional stuff."

Good Cop pauses. He's still wearing his mask. If Bad Cop changed him and took his temperature while he was asleep, does that mean he changed his mask, too? He looks at Bad Cop and gestures to it.

Bad Cop shakes his head. "I didn't take off your mask. I don't have any replacements and it's pretty obvious you're trying to hide your face, which is none of my business. I took an underarm temperature."

Good Cop nods slowly. Bad Cop must think he's got some kind of disfigurement on his lower face, akin to the acid scars on his hands, or he's being sensitive about the various legal reasons Good Cop would want to keep his identity hidden. Either way, Bad Cop hasn't seen his face, which is good. He's not sure how Bad Cop would react to that.

There's a long pause, then Bad Cop sighs. "Quinn, what were you thinking?"

Good Cop looks at him.

"Don't look at me like that, you _know_ what I'm talking about," Bad Cop says. "Why did you go out in the middle of a snowstorm when you were running a fever? To fight Master Builders, obviously, but what insane logic made you think that was even a little okay?"

 _{You needed help,}_ Good Cop signs. His hands still feel stiff and he has to sign it twice, just to make sure he gets the message across.

Bad Cop's scowl deepens. "There's no way you could have known that."

Good Cop shrugs. He's not about to explain that he has an all-frequencies police radio.

"And I don't know how you doctored my gun, either. It's supposed to do a controlled self-destruct when anyone but me uses it," Bad Cop says. "Whatever you did, it's tidy. I couldn't see any modifications."

Ah. That's something else Good Cop won't mention.

"Whatever," Bad Cop says as he gets to his feet and goes to put his coat on. "I have to check on some things after that mess this morning. Where do you keep your medication? I can grab it from the bakery before I come back."

Good Cop blinks at him. _{I don't have medication.}_

Bad Cop stops in the middle of zipping up his coat. "Sorry," he says slowly. "I get my signs mixed up sometimes. I could have sworn you just said you don't _have_ medication."

Good Cop nods.

There's a second of silence, and Bad Cop has to visibly restrain himself from hitting something as he carefully grips the back of a chair. "When you say you don't have medication," Bad Cop says, "you mean that you _ran out,_ right? I can pick something up from the pharmacy if you need a refill."

Good Cop shakes his head.

Bad Cop stares up at the ceiling and mutters something less than flattering under his breath. He looks back at Good Cop. "So you're telling me that you've been coughing up blood for at least four months and you _didn't get any medical attention?"_

 _{That's hypocritical of you. You haven't been very good about minding your health, either,}_ Good Cop points out.

"I'm glad I don't know what you just said," Bad Cop says, jabbing a finger at Good Cop. "Because I'm pretty sure I'd have to hit something if I did." He zips his coat with a sharp yank and says, "I'm leaving. If you're hungry, there's rice porridge on the table. Don't leave the apartment."

With that, Bad Cop leaves.

* * *

There's not much to do.

Good Cop still feels awful, more than the baseline awful he's been feeling all winter but at least less awful than those three days he mostly spent passed out in the loft, which isn't saying much--he's had times when he was literally dying and still didn't feel as bad as _that._ His eyes feel dry, his chest feels tight, and he all-around aches. That last part is probably the fever and not just him getting old, but he's really not sure at this point. At least he's mostly awake and aware, even if it would probably be more pleasant if he wasn't.

He spends a while just carding his fingers through his hair to occupy himself and to try and rescue it from being a tangled knotted mess. It is, perhaps predictably, less than effective.

When he gives up on that, he gets up and paces around to stretch out his legs, noting with some amusement that he's wearing Bad Cop's pajama pants--the plaid ones and not the fuzzy pair with the cartoon sheep Ma had sent for Christmas a few years ago, unfortunately. He eats the porridge even though he's not hungry because if what Bad Cop said is true, then he hasn't eaten in almost an entire day and if Bad Cop went to the trouble of making it, it wouldn't be very good manners to waste it. The porridge is okay. Cold, mostly, and a bit on the bland side, which is fine. It's not like he's in any state to be appreciating the nuances of food anyways.

He explores the apartment a little. A check outside the window tells him first that it's finally stopped snowing and second that he's on the second floor, though he can't tell exactly where with the darkness. The broken streetlamps would indicate he's still in the eastern districts, though. The apartment itself is one-bedroom, bigger than his loft, and mostly normal except for the giant hole in the floor of the bedroom.

Which would explain why Good Cop is on a mattress on the floor in the living room.

He's not even sure how a hole like that happens. Was it a pyrotechnic experiment gone wrong? Did someone cut a hole through with a jigsaw and smash the edges for good measure? He doesn't speculate too much on it. Some things are perhaps better left unexplained.

It's worth noting, though, that the bed in the bedroom still has a mattress, which means Bad Cop pulled the one Good Cop's sleeping on from somewhere else, which is...considerate. Surely, if Bad Cop went to the trouble of picking him up after he--what was it, passed out? and dragged him back through the storm, and changed his clothes and checked his temperature and everything, then he can't be that angry at Good Cop anymore, right?

...right?

Soon enough, Good Cop starts feeling fatigue creeping up again and he goes to sit on the mattress and bundles himself under all three of his blankets. They smell like his apartment back in Bricksburg, crisp and clean and warm.

Thinking of home, Good Cop falls asleep again.

* * *

35.

The next time Good Cop wakes up, it's light again.

"Morning, sunshine," Bad Cop says from somewhere vaguely to the left and Good Cop has to hastily reorient himself from hearing Bad Cop's voice _outside_ his head. There's a crinkling sound of newspaper. "Or afternoon. It's one forty-three. I'd ask if you were sick, but the answer is obviously yes."

Good Cop sits up with a wince as his back crackles like a bag of chips. His skin is still clammy, but he feels somewhat better. Not great, of course, but not like his head is filled with cotton and hot air, which he takes as a sign that his fever is finally down.

"Here," Bad Cop says, tossing a small box over to Good Cop. It's a pack of surgical face masks. "For your face. I'm going to go run some errands, and _you're_ going to get a medical examination."

Good Cop looks at Bad Cop incredulously. Where exactly does Bad Cop think he'll get a medical exam from?

Bad Cop goes into the hallway and grabs...a robot. A robot wearing a lab coat, that is. "This is one of my personal robots. Nothing it sees will get back to Business," Bad Cop says. "It probably won't be fun, but _you_ need treatment, and I'm not a doctor."

Good Cop looks at the robot. He remembers it, somewhat. Terry, he thinks. After Bad Cop kept getting hurt all the time, it had decided to install a medical database so it could try and fix him. The algorithms were pretty rocky at first, but over time, Terry figured out how to apply its information correctly. Good Cop can't say much more about it, though, because it ended up disappearing a few months before Taco Tuesday--damaged beyond repair in a confrontation with the Master Builders, most likely.

Either way, using Bad Cop's personal doctor robot is probably not the worst solution.

Resigned, Good Cop pulls his blankets off. It probably _is_ about time he sees someone about the whole coughing blood thing.

* * *

The list of health problems Good Cop has is both long and depressing.

At the top of the list is his horrible respiratory infection, which in a fun twist of events is actually _two_ horrible respiratory infections: one in his throat that's mostly cleared up, but not before it destroyed his vocal cords and one in his lungs that's emphatically _not_ cleared up that's making him cough up blood. Apparently, between the cold and his less than ideal diet, he's also suffering from some general malnutrition and a couple of specific vitamin deficiencies, and a likely related immune system deficiency. So much for hoping it would help solve his problems.

The important thing is that the fungal infection in his lungs has started spreading to other tissues, resulting in that monster fever a few days ago and some other recent problems, and also it's almost always lethal if untreated. Fortunately, as Terry is quick to tell Good Cop, with antifungal medication he should be okay. Probably. It's hard to tell when his general health has deteriorated to something approximating a smoldering trash fire--not _entirely_ beyond saving yet, but getting there.

While the infection can be treated, the fungal scarring in his lungs, which is incidentally a horrible set of words to _ever_ go together, and the damage to his vocal cords caused by talking too much when he had the throat infection will never fully heal.

He'd suspected it, but it's still disheartening to hear.

Really, the only good news to come out of the examination is that he really isn't infectious, so he doesn't have to worry about that, at least. Thank goodness for small mercies.

When all's said and done, Terry sends a message to presumably Bad Cop, then goes to sit in a corner and go into sleep mode.

Good Cop just sits on the floor and tries to contemplate how his life got to be like this.

* * *

Later, Bad Cop comes back with two bottles of pills and a sheet of very specific instructions on their use. He shoves them into Good Cop's hands and glares until Good Cop goes to the bathroom to take them. Luckily, he gets the pills down _before_ he has another coughing fit.

When he's done and goes back out, Bad Cop's in the kitchen chopping vegetables. Bad Cop glances up at him. "You all right now?"

Good Cop shrugs, sits, and puts his head down on the table. He's tired. Not sleepy, considering how much time he's spent unconscious in the last four...five? days, just exhausted.

The apartment is filled with nothing but the sound of Bad Cop's knife on the cutting board, then, "They're looking for you."

Good Cop looks up at Bad Cop, who's moved on from the celery and on to an onion.

"The Master Builders. They're not very happy with that stunt you pulled the other day," Bad Cop says. "Some of them think you're dead."

Good Cop would be, if Bad Cop hadn't grabbed him.

"I don't think they'll find you here," Bad Cop says. "Master Builders don't like going this close to the city."

That's either a reassurance or a threat--Good Cop's not entirely sure which. Given all other evidence, he's inclined to think the former. 

There's another long pause, before Bad Cop clears his throat and says, "I'm sorry. Last time we talked, I...did some things I regret." He takes a deep breath. "You didn't have to come after me, after that. I wouldn't have expected it, and I wouldn't have asked for it, but you did. You fought the Master Builders and helped me get out of there. I appreciate it."

There's another long pause while Bad Cop continues chopping vegetables.

"I'm sorry I doubted your intentions, or your trust in me," he says. "I thought you wanted to gain my trust so you could turn me over to your Master Builder friends. It's clear after the other day that that's not the case. You risked your life to help me, and I can't imagine why, but thanks.

"As far as I know, you haven't lied to me once since we met, except for your name. I don't believe for a second your name is actually Quinn, but that's not my concern, so." Bad Cop exhales heavily, then puts his knife down.

"I can't stop working for Business, Quinn. I know that's what you want me to do. And I know why you want me to. He's got a vision that's worth fighting for, but I've talked to Good Cop and we both agree that the way he's going about it has been...bad, these past few years. I can't justify what I'm doing anymore."

 _{What will you do?}_ Good Cop asks.

Bad Cop looks down at the table. "I don't know. Business is...not a good person to cross. I can't stop doing the work. I'm not the only one at risk and I have things I can't afford to lose. If I leave, or if I run, he'll hunt me down, and anyone close to me in revenge. He'd go after you, or burn down entire parts of this city if he thought it would flush me out. He's got eyes everywhere, and there's no way for me to escape. Not when I'm in this deep with nowhere to go."

Good Cop looks at him. It's true enough. He certainly wouldn't put it above Business to hold an entire city hostage just to spite Bad Cop. He can't say he has any answers, either.

 _{How's G?}_ he asks instead.

Bad Cop's mouth twists. "Angry at me, thanks to you. I'd have him deal with you and wash my hands of this whole mess, but after last time I'm not leaving you two alone together."

_{Is he awake?}_

"As if he'd ever go to sleep after what you told him," Bad Cop says with a growl, turning away towards the stove. "He's being a pain and a half. Just like you."

And yeah, that's fair.

With Bad Cop looking the other way to cook, Good Cop can't really say anything to him anymore, which he supposes is fine since he doesn't have anything to say right now anyways.

So they stay like that in silence, Good Cop at the dining table and Bad Cop cooking. It's all terribly domestic, Good Cop thinks. Peaceful, even.

He wonders how long this can last.

* * *

36.

Bad Cop drops Good Cop off by the bakery two days later, well after dark and about half a block away for safety, the day Good Cop's declared healthy enough to get around without collapsing.

For sure, that's a depressingly low standard for health, but as Bad Cop is quick to point out, neither of them have the time to wait around. Bad Cop can't risk Business hearing something he shouldn't and doing something unfortunate, just as Good Cop can't risk the Master Builders finding him and doing something equally unfortunate.

So Good Cop goes back still feeling generally awful, but at least his fever is gone and he's probably not going to pass out. And, as Bad Cop _helpfully_ reminds him when he goes, he now has medication that he _will_ take, as directed, for the six months it's prescribed, and if Bad Cop finds out Good Cop isn't eating properly, there _will_ be consequences.

And Bad Cop has the nerve to call _him_ fussy.

Good Cop walks back slowly, tapping along with his walking stick in one hand, a small bag with leftovers, a blanket, and his medication in the other, and Bad Cop's 'doctored' blaster tucked under his coat.

It's weird, coming back home after the last few days. It's too...normal.

He _knows_ there are Master Builders actively looking for him, though it's unclear if they're looking for him specifically or just their unknown sniper. Simply going back home after that seems...inadvisable.

He's not sure how the resistance treats traitors--not that he _is_ one, of course, since he's been clear about never being on their side in the first place. But Good Cop knows the Master Builders are unlikely to see it that way, and he is not inclined to find out what they're capable of on a _personal_ level. He's had enough unpleasant experience with that sort of thing from Business.

It puts him on edge, and that's perhaps why he's not completely blindsided when he takes a step into the bakery and is almost instantly grabbed.

Good Cop's reaction is immediate--he drops his bag and hits his assailant away with his walking stick, then swings, one-two, into the stomach, behind the legs. The person gags as they fall to their knees, and with a single motion, Good Cop grabs a fistful of shirt with his free hand and forces them down to the floor, holding his stick against their throat for good measure. The entire encounter takes less than fifteen seconds.

The intruder coughs, still gasping for breath. "It's me, it's Benny! I just--I just want to talk," Benny says shakily.

Good Cop doesn't let him up. He may have been friends with Benny once upon a time, and even shared some tenuous amount of trust with him, but this Benny is not the same one he knew. The only things between Good Cop and this Benny are a hasty resuscitation and a half a conversation, and with the break-in, Good Cop is feeling less than generous.

"I just wanna talk, honest," Benny says again, with an edge of panic creeping into his voice. "Quinn. Please."

Well, Good Cop _is_ always open to talk, and Benny _did_ say 'please'. He slowly drags Benny up to his feet, then back behind the bakery counter. He's not taking any chances. If they're going to talk, it won't be where anyone can see.

He finally lets Benny go once they're in the back room and Good Cop firmly plants himself in front of the closed--and only--door. Benny, wide-eyed and shaky, looks like he's just realized he's gotten over his head.

Good Cop gives Benny a small jab with his walking stick when the silence stretches on. It's one in the morning and he wants to put his things away and sleep.

"Now I know why everyone's scared of you," Benny says with a weak smile. "You're...you're something, Quinn."

Good Cop just stares at him, and Benny fidgets nervously under his gaze, which is a weird feeling. He wonders if this is how Bad Cop felt when he interrogated people--Good Cop's methods had always tended either towards the subversive or physical; people weren't _scared_ of him, not like they were of Bad Cop.

Benny takes a careful breath. "That night last week, that was you, wasn't it?"

Good Cop neither confirms nor denies it.

"I...wanted to talk to you. I tried to find you after everything was over, just to see if it really was you, but it was so dark that nobody knew where you went and the snow covered up all the tracks. 

"I knew you worked here, so I came here the morning after to see if you'd come back, but that person you work with told me you'd been sick for days. Like, super crazy, hacking up your lungs, passing out all the time sick, and I asked Wyldstyle, and she said the same thing. She said the day of the thing you looked like you were gonna fall over.

"And, I mean, the lights were bad and it was on the fire escape and also you, like, hit me in the stomach and ran away--which really sucked by the way--but I'm sure it was you. I'm _so_ sure I saw you, and you were the one who shot down seven of us that night, but everyone says you've been sick all last week."

Benny looks at Good Cop, breathing hard after letting all of that out at once. He looks down.

"I...I haven't told anyone," he says. "I mean, I told them you hit me and that I couldn't get a good look at your face, which is, y'know,"--he makes a gesture to the lower half of his face--"true."

Benny takes a deep breath and firmly meets Good Cop's gaze. "I wanted to be sure, first. Was it really you?"

Good Cop looks at him for a bit, then with the hand he isn't using to point his stick at Benny, he grabs his phone from his coat pocket and opens up a text app.

//what would you do if it was?// he types one-handed. He flips the phone around for Benny to see.

Benny blinks at the question. "I don't know," he says after a long pause. "I guess I'd want to know why. I thought you were...on our side. I mean, you're a good guy, and you saved my life, and... Why would you shoot us down?"

There's a long pause as Benny trails off.

//I've never been on your side,// Good Cop types.

Benny's eyes scan back and forth on the message, like reading it multiple times will change what it says. "...If you're not on our side, then whose side are you on?"

//figure it out. it shouldn't be hard,// Good Cop replies. He steps aside so he's not blocking the door. //go home Benny. I'm tired and I've been sick all week.//

"Wait, but-- So was it you or not?" Benny asks.

//you know what you saw.//

The silence stretches out again, and Good Cop gives Benny an impatient prod with his stick. He motions to the door.

Benny takes the hint and leaves.

* * *

37.

The problem, of course, doesn't go away.

It confronts him the next day when he's on the way to the market. Or rather, _she_ stomps up to him and slaps him in the face.

Good Cop sees it coming and lets Lucy have it, and she hits so hard that he immediately regrets it.

"I thought I could _trust_ you," she hisses at him.

He rubs his stinging cheek but offers no explanations. He's not sorry, and he isn't about to pretend he is. He knew the consequences when he chose to go after Bad Cop.

Lucy growls, turns on her heel, and leaves. Good Cop doesn't stop her.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good Cop makes preparations. It's close now.

38.

The following days are...strange.

When he finally feels well enough to do work, Jean just raises an eyebrow and lets him get to it. Good Cop doesn't doubt for a second that they know he was gone for the last few days. They probably covered for him, too.

The work is normal--kneading dough and mixing batter really isn't something that ever changes--but the clientele _shifts_ slightly. Lucy doesn't show up, and neither does Benny, which is to be expected. But Master Builders start to come in, apparently for no other reason than to ask vaguely probing questions that he completely ignores, then stare at him as he proofs the yeast and measures out ingredients.

Good Cop wonders if Benny spilled the beans to everyone, not just Lucy, but he's not sure it would make a difference. There's really only so many competent non-resistance fighters who use a walking stick, and even as low as his general opinion of Master Builders is, they're not _that_ lacking in basic deductive ability.

It's not just the Master Builders in the bakery, though. Good Cop feels eyes following him when he runs errands, no matter how late it is, and he catches glimpses of people tailing him out of the corner of his eye. After what happened the last time they tried to grab him, he doesn't think they'll try again, but he starts carrying Bad Cop's blaster around more often and keeps his guard up.

Bad Cop visits the bakery about three weeks after the incident, two entire months since he visited last, acting as if nothing had happened and the bakery isn't a nest of suspicious resistance members.

Good Cop brings his usual order with a napkin that says, //you realize there are five Master Builders watching this building?//

Bad Cop glances at the napkin, then wipes his mouth with it and crumples it up. "I'm not an idiot," he says with a glare. "Are you taking your medication?"

Rolling his eyes, Good Cop nods. It's not like he has a death wish, despite what Bad Cop seems determined to think.

Bad Cop gives an approving grunt. He takes a bite, chews slowly, then says, somewhat haltingly, "I never said so before, but you make croissants the same way my Pa does. I haven't had them in a while."

Good Cop clicks his teeth together. That's...not a surprise, but he's not sure why Bad Cop would bring it up.

"They're good," Bad Cop says, nervously adjusting his reading glasses as he stares at the table. "I...missed having them."

Ah.

Good Cop pats Bad Cop on the shoulder and signs, _{I missed you, too.}_

Bad Cop's face turns as red as a tomato, and Good Cop gives him another affectionate pat before going back to work.

Between all of the problems and suspicion in the wake of that attack, Good Cop's happy to at least have this.

* * *

39.

Jean pulls Good Cop aside before hours at the beginning of March. They slide a small packet into Good Cop's hands and holds it there for a long moment. "Be careful, Quinn."

Good Cop looks at it. It's a full set of papers and ID cards. Jean's friend had come through after all.

Jean nods somberly, then leaves Good Cop alone with his counterfeit documents. Good Cop just stands there for a bit, feeling a little dizzy in a way that has nothing to do with his illness.

It's finally time.

* * *

40.

Before Good Cop can go grab the Piece of Resistance, there's one last matter he has to take care of, one that scares him a lot more than trawling around construction sites to find some ancient artifact.

He has to keep his parents safe.

He still dreams of it, sometimes, that night he'd picked up Business's horrible machine and snuffed out his parent's lives. He remembers the look in their eyes, that horror they felt at watching their son prepare to murder them, as if Business killing their other son wasn't enough.

They were innocent and didn't deserve to die by the Kragle, but they weren't the first innocent lives snuffed out at Good Cop's hands, and at least he'd done it quickly and mercifully. He'd looked them in the eyes as he pulled the trigger--that was the least he could do, to face his crimes head on.

Afterwards, when they'd been cured, they were scared of him. They never said so, but Good Cop could see it. He wonders if they weren't still scared of him two years later, if they looked at him and saw him for the murderer he is and was and ached for their missing son, the one who _wouldn't_ pull the trigger.

If they did, Good Cop couldn't blame them.

* * *

Good Cop knocks on his parents' door. He feels strangely naked without his mask on, but it's what he needs to do. He's not here to stay, he just needs to talk to them and get them somewhere safe where Business can't find them. Simple, right?

If only.

There's a long pause before the door opens and Ma says, "Son, we weren't expecting you! You should have called ahead!"

Good Cop grins sheepishly and waves hello. Ma reaches out for a hug and Good Cop lets her, sinking into her soft knit sweater and warmth. It feels like home.

"Oh, dear, you're so skinny now! Haven't you been eating properly?" Ma says as she pulls out of the hug. "Come on in, your Pa will be so glad to see you!"

Ma chatters as they go into the house, with comments like, "It's been so long!" and "You should visit more!". Then they go into the living room and the scent hits Good Cop like a truck. It smells like leaves and crisp linen and coffee and green onions and--

It's too much. Good Cop has to bite his lip to try and stop himself from crying because this, this is...

It feels safe.

Not nameless, not homeless, not alone, just him and his parents, safe. He hasn't been here for...five? six? months, but with everything since he dropped into the past, it feels like so much longer.

"Son!" Pa says, coming out from his study. "How are you? It's been, what, a year and a half since we saw you last! How've you been?"

Good Cop gives Pa a big hug, then gestures to his throat. He fumbles with his pockets to pull out a notepad and pen, then writes, //I lost my voice, the doctor says I shouldn't talk//

Pa laughs and says, "That's no problem, we're just happy you've visited. It's been too long, now."

It really has, Good Cop thinks as he goes with Pa over to the living room to sit. Ma smiles at him and says, "Come on, dear, have a seat and rest. It's such a long trip from the city, I'll have to get something for you to eat."

Ma goes off to the kitchen and Pa says, "You grew out your hair again. I haven't seen it this long since you were in school."

Good Cop smiles and shrugs. //I've been busy,// he writes.

Pa waves him off and says, "Oh, it looks just fine, son. I was just surprised, is all. And your brother, how is he doing?"

Ah. Good Cop writes, //He's tired from work and then we got sick. I don't know if he'll talk much.// It's a plausible enough lie, since B was always a horrible patient. He tried to sleep it all off so he wouldn't need to deal with the physical consequences.

Pa nods, then asks some other questions about how work is going. Good Cop answers as best as he can from what little he remembers, if not entirely honestly. He's not sure how much his parents know about work with Business, but he distinctly remembers not telling them very much about the parts that went on behind closed doors. That's something they're happier not knowing.

It's a comfortable, quiet conversation, and it makes Good Cop feel the most normal he's been since everything happened. Pa's voice is friendly and grounding and the house is warm and familiar and Good Cop just takes it all in while he can.

It goes on like that for a while, and eventually Pa brings the conversation around to the inevitable.

"We're glad you're here, but you always call ahead, so what's wrong, now?"

Good Cop bites his lip, then writes, //it's about Business. I don't think you're safe.//

"Not safe? What do you mean by that?" Pa asks.

Just as Good Cop moves to answer, he hears the telltale click of a gun.

"Yes, dear," Ma says from the doorway in a calm voice that turns Good Cop's soul to ice. "And maybe you can tell us who you really are, as well."

Good Cop turns to look at her. The gun isn't pointed at him, but it hangs in Ma's hands, easy enough for her to fire if he makes any sudden moves.

The panic must show on his face, because Ma continues, "I just called my _real_ son, and they're in Bricksburg, so who are you?"

Good Cop swallows and looks down at his paper. He feels like paper-thin glass, fragile and brittle and he can't do this, he can't stand to have Ma look at him like a stranger, like some kind of threat.

Pa reaches out and sets his hand on Good Cop's. "If you need help, we can help, but first you've got to explain why you went to the trouble of pretending to be our son."

That...stings.

Good Cop slowly picks up his pen again with numb fingers and writes, //I am your son.//

"You don't have to lie," Pa says gently.

//I'm not.//

There's a long pause, long enough for disapproval to cross Pa's face, and Good Cop clenches his fists.

Deliberately, he pulls off his gloves and turns his hands palms-up, revealing discolored chemical burns and childhood scars across his fingers. He turns them this way and that, then picks up his pen again and writes, //I'm Ciaran. I traveled back in time.//

Pa reads the words several times, then looks Good Cop in the eyes. The number of people who know his real name can be counted on one hand, and they both know it. As absurd and hard to believe as it all is, the evidence is there, or at least Good Cop hopes so.

Pa takes a deep breath and motions for Ma to come over. He faces Good Cop. "Perhaps you ought to tell us what happened," he says. "And start from the beginning."

* * *

41.

The beginning is Business and the end of the world, and the end is a victory that's nowhere in sight.

He doesn't explain everything. He doesn't tell his parents that he murdered them, or what he did to Business after everything settled down. He doesn't tell them what happened to B. They don't need to be burdened with that, especially when he won't let it happen again.

Instead, he talks about Business. Business, who wanted everything to be perfect. Business, who was ready to burn the entire world down to the ground just to fulfill his own desires.

He talks about what Business did to him and B. Not everything, and not in detail, but enough that they get the idea of the blood that's on his hands, and how much of his is on Business's.

Ma and Pa sit by silently, asking questions whenever Good Cop skates too lightly--which is often. They draw out detail, and the longer it goes on, the sicker they look, just as their skepticism bleeds away. Good Cop knows they don't want to hear about the people he's killed and the ways Business had trapped him into it, but he tells them because they need to know what he's trying to protect them from.

By the time Good Cop is finished, three hours have passed and the air feels somber and heavy.

"I'm so sorry," Ma says softly. "You shouldn't have had to go through all of that."

Good Cop doesn't try to console her. He doesn't say everything is okay. It isn't, and that's why he's here.

//Business will come after you,// Good Cop writes. //He knows it'll hurt us. You have to go somewhere safe. Where no one can find you.//

Pa sighs. "Son, it's not that easy--"

"How much time do we have?" Ma asks, cutting him off.

Good Cop blinks. Of all the questions they could have asked, he wasn't expecting that one.

"You're going to do something, aren't you?" Ma asks. "That's why you came all the way out here."

Good Cop thinks about it. He's going downtown in two days, and it might take a week or more to find the Piece of Resistance. After that, well, he doesn't know what will happen.

//one week,// he writes.

Ma purses her lips. "That soon? Okay. We'll get ready."

Good Cop exhales in relief. They believe him. They'll be safe. They won't have to die this time. That's...good.

There's another long silence. Pa's looking down at sheets filled with the past, present, and future with an expression approaching sorrow while Ma's twining and untwining her fingers, clearly lost in thought.

Good Cop clicks his tongue and, with some hesitation, adds, //if you need help, call this person. tell him Quinn sent you.// Below, he writes down Benny's information.

It's a risk, he knows, but Benny's...kind. A little brittle around the edges and anxious, but generous. Benny could keep a secret and he was willing to give the benefit of the doubt even after Good Cop literally shot down seven of his friends, and he's mostly certain that that will extend to his parents. If he won't, then...

Well, he won't think about that. He trusts Benny's character.

"Quinn?" Pa asks.

//that's what I go by,// Good Cop writes. //I still don't use Ciaran.//

He'd stopped using it years ago when he started carving up Master Builders for Business. He just...didn't feel right, ruining a name like that, and it never worked for him after. Not when anyone but Bad Cop used it, because at least Bad Cop _knew._

Ma and Pa still used it sometimes, before he'd fallen back in time, and it was tolerable coming from them. Even then, they didn't use it much. They knew how he felt.

"I see," Pa says. "And you're happy with Quinn?"

Good Cop has to think on that one. He's used to it after six months, but if he likes it? He's not sure. He'd picked it without much thought, back when he needed a new identity, fast.

After this much time, he...doesn't really feel like Good Cop. He's not that person anymore. Not a cop, certainly, and not good, or even trying to be. Just a nameless, voiceless person lost in time, trying to stop the inevitable.

There's nothing special about Quinn. It's a plain name, picked randomly, and that's...appropriate. He feels plain. He doesn't have any powers, magic or authoritative, he's not some kind of hero, and he's stranded in the past by a freak accident with no return in sight. He's just...another insignificant part of the bigger picture, with nothing going for him except the misfortune of having seen the future.

//you can use it if you want,// he writes. //I think I'd like that.//

"Quinn," Ma says experimentally, and it sounds like a _name,_ not just words. "That's a lovely name, Quinn. I'm glad you've found it."

Good Cop-- _Quinn_ \--nods. He feels steadier with his parents and lighter after letting everything out. He's not sure what will happen next, and it scares him as much as it always does, but his parents will be safe and he has a goal in mind. He's ready to do what has to be done.

Maybe...maybe things will work out.

* * *

42.

Quinn sits on the damp rooftop of an abandoned apartment building, looking in towards the city. It's late at night, or perhaps early in the morning, and even now there's a yellow glow of street lights and skyscrapers creeping outwards from downtown.

It's been six months since he got punched by a wizard out of an alley in Bricksburg into the slums on the outskirts, three years in the past. Tomorrow, he's finally going back.

He's not worried about forgetting Bricksburg. He was there for over fifteen years; it would take a lot more than half a year to make him forget anything about it. But at the same time, he's apprehensive. His memory for certain things isn't great, and one of those things is how Bricksburg used to be when Business was still in power.

It's not really his memory that's the problem in this case. It's that he was never a 'normal' citizen. He--or Bad Cop, rather--stood at Business's right side and managed robots and security and propaganda, so he knows what's _there,_ but he's never seen it from the outside.

But he supposes he was always better at acting 'normal' than Bad Cop was. He's worked with enough citizens to know how to hit the main points. Listen to directions, smile, be enthusiastic about whatever is most popular at the time. Be respectable. Don't stand out.

He can do that. He has his papers, registered to one Quinn Brickowski, uncle to Emmet Brickowski on the father's side. Emmet won't question it, and his face looks generic enough that people can make the leap and trick themselves into thinking he and Quinn are related. Quinn will keep his mask on, of course, which helps. Jean's friend had been kind enough to add a section in his medical records stating that he has a compromised immune system and is infectious, but not infectious enough to be hospitalized. He's required to wear the mask any time he's around enough people for public health reasons.

He's ready, but he doesn't feel like it. He's got a small packet of maps and a few tools for emergencies and a single suitcase with about four changes of clothes, his recently refilled prescription, and his forged documents. He's got Bad Cop's blaster, only good for maybe five more shots, and his walking stick.

There's really no reason for any of this to go wrong, he thinks. No reason why he should be up so late, unable to sleep from the sheer anticipation.

But what if he can't find the Piece of Resistance? What if Emmet doesn't accept his mysterious new family member at face value? What if people get suspicious of his muteness and report him? What if someone recognizes him?

He feels like he's stepping out into nothing with nothing but faith and uncertain knowledge of the future on his side. The world is moving around him and what can he possibly do to stop it?

He takes a deep breath in. Counts to ten. Lets it out.

He's just one person. Hopefully that's enough.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's no going back now.

43.

Bricksburg is loud.

It's busy and full of crowds and people who are all vividly different, yet so...similar. After spending so much time around Master Builders and their _eclectic_ company, everyone in Bricksburg feels interchangeable, like a grab bag of random parts that feels unsettlingly unreal. The streets are filled with static in the spaces where one person, one voice, one generic pop song bleeds into the next and Quinn finds it hard to focus.

Nobody gives him a second glance as he gets off of the train at the downtown station, and the automated security check doesn't even blip as his forged ID card passes through the scanner.

He drifts through the train station, trying to center himself. A normal citizen. That's who he is. Happy. Friendly. Generic.

He knows how to exude that atmosphere of general contentment--he'd refined it back when he was in school, and weaponized it under Business, but he's out of practice. He hasn't had to fake happiness since...a few months after Bad Cop died. The smile comes to his lips as quickly as it always did, but it feels stiff and unnatural. It's fortunate that it's hidden behind his mask.

He heads straight from the station to Emmet's apartment. It's a Sunday, so he knows Emmet will be there--it's not like Emmet has many friends to go out with. It's only three blocks away, and already by the time he gets there, he feels exhausted.

Overwhelmed.

His six months in the quiet outskirts of the city must have done more than he thought, because all of these people, all of these strangers, put him on edge. There's too many eyes, too many hands, too many moving colors all at once.

He knows they don't even notice him, but he can't help but think they _will._ He can feel the cameras, watching his every move, and he just...he has to deal with it.

He takes a deep breath and goes up to Emmet's apartment and knocks.

Almost instantly, there's a muffled crashing sound as Emmet stumbles his way to the door. There's a couple other concerning sounds, until Emmet makes it to the door and throws it open.

It's remarkable just how identical Emmet looks from the last time Quinn had seen him. Slightly flushed face, combed brown hair with a bit of fluff, and an expression that is perhaps not the brightest, but at least can't be faulted for enthusiasm. He's wearing a lime green T-shirt with what Quinn can only assume is a reference to a TV show he hasn't seen, but other than that, Emmet doesn't seem to have changed at all in the last three years.

"Hi!" Emmet pauses for just a second to look at Quinn. "Who are you?"

Quinn hands him a letter. It's a brief explanation that he's Emmet's uncle, mute, and staying for an unknown amount of time, most likely between one and three weeks. It's brief and to the point, and Quinn knows that the easiest way to get Emmet to agree to something is to phrase it as a command. Emmet had gotten better about that after Taco Tuesday, but before? He's so easy to take advantage of that Quinn feels vaguely guilty for doing it like this.

Not guilty enough to stop, of course. When it comes to stopping Business and saving Bad Cop, there are very few things he isn't willing to do.

Emmet squints at the paper, his eyes skipping back upwards on the page a few times, perhaps out of disbelief or difficulty deciphering Quinn's handwriting. After a few minutes, Emmet stares at Quinn, and maybe it was a little presumptuous to assume even Emmet would blindly accept such a transparent lie.

And then, Emmet smiles and says, "Wow! You're my uncle? That's super cool!"

Quinn holds back his breath of relief.

Emmet opens the door wider and says, "Come in, I'm so happy you're here, I can't believe you'd want to hang out with me, and, oh, I've got something over here that you'll like--"

It goes on like that for some time, while Emmet hurriedly moves things around to accommodate Quinn and chatters about the exciting things he likes to do around Bricksburg, the latest TV shows he's watched, and all of his friends (several of whom seem to be potted plants). Enthusiasm aside, the way he lists through his interests seems...mechanical. Directly out of the instruction manual, no doubt, and Quinn starts wondering how many real conversations Emmet has had.

Inexperienced or not, Emmet is clearly over the moon with having someone give him any sort of attention, and Quinn just wishes that he could do more than nod along. He _knew_ Emmet was starved for attention before everything went down, but like _this?_

That's...not right.

It takes less than twenty minutes for Emmet to sweep into the guest room ("for whenever my friends come over, which they usually don't, but that's okay because you're here now") and show Quinn everything of interest around the apartment, and at the end of it all, Emmet's run off to do...something, leaving Quinn alone in what is apparently now his room.

He sits down.

His skin feels like it's vibrating with anticipation. He's here, he's made contact, everything is going according to plan. All he has to deal with for now is...Emmet.

Emmet, who always believes the best in people, and tried his hardest to fit in and be normal because he wanted someone to _notice._ Emmet, who in another time and place was the Special, not because he picked up a magical artifact, not because he was better or smarter or more powerful than any of the Master Builders, but because he was _good,_ and believed that sometimes even monsters were worth reasoning with.

Emmet, who just wanted to _be_ someone.

He's innocent, just like Ma and Pa were innocent, and just like them, whether Emmet knows or not, Quinn's got him under his knife.

Quinn's not trying to fool anyone, least of all himself. He knows that he's only using Emmet to get close to the Piece of Resistance. He can feel himself standing on the shore of the Rubicon, preparing to take the fight to Business. When he goes, he'll have to leave Emmet behind--Emmet, who believes he's just met what might be the only family he's ever known.

There won't be time to say goodbye. The moment Quinn grabs it, he needs to run. Run and prepare to meet Business. Save the world, save Bad Cop, get his happy ending.

All it'll cost is breaking Emmet's heart.

That's...that's a choice he's willing to make.

* * *

44.

Living with Emmet is...interesting.

It transpires that Emmet's skill with cooking extends roughly to the point of boiling pasta and not much further, which means that Quinn has to take it upon himself to teach Emmet a thing or two.

Even though Quinn can't explain anything verbally, Emmet learns quickly enough through imitation, and if Quinn has to periodically stop and adjust Emmet's grip on the knife as he chops vegetables, well, Emmet seems delighted just to have the attention. Between them, they get a simple vegetable and beef stew on the stove without too much time or fuss.

"Wow, that was really easy!" Emmet says as he stirs the pot. "Is cooking always this fun?"

Quinn isn't sure exactly how 'fun' washing and chopping vegetables is, so he shrugs and goes back to peeling his apple.

(Emmet had wanted to learn that, too, but then he nicked himself twice on the paring knife and Quinn decided that learning how to peel fruit could come another day.)

"I've never made something big like this before," Emmet continues. "I always wanted to make a big meal for all of my friends, but I've never had the chance. But you're here, so now we can!"

Quinn slices his apple as if Emmet hadn't just said something incredibly depressing and offers a piece to him. Emmet just stares at it cluelessly for a few seconds until Quinn slowly and deliberately puts the piece of apple into his hand, and even then Emmet seems confused. It's not until Quinn finishes slicing the apple and pulls his mask down to eat his half that Emmet realizes the fruit _placed directly in his hand_ is for him to eat.

Quinn doesn't even know what to call that.

It goes like that for the entire evening, with Emmet constantly and unintentionally dropping information about his incredibly sad and lonely life.

("Look, I got Supercops 3: The Superest Cop on DVD! I wanted to see it at the theater but the instructions say you're only supposed to go with friends and they didn't let Planty in--")

("I do construction work most of the time, but that's boring, so I know you don't want to hear about that--")

("Yeah, just grab a chair! I have a lot because I got a 'family' set, but I guess they meant families bigger than just me--")

...it honestly makes Quinn feel vaguely ill.

He never had many friends growing up, but he always had Bad Cop, and that was enough. Emmet, from the sounds of it, has _nobody._ And the thought of that, growing up alone in his own head?

He can't fathom it. Bad Cop may be gone now, but he'd been there before, all the times Quinn needed it the most.

(Omitting the...obvious exception, anyways.)

If he hadn't been there, hadn't listened and talked when Quinn had too many thoughts in his head, well...Quinn might have eaten himself alive. Forget a monotonous job in Bricksburg and a depressingly empty apartment, he never would have gotten that far.

Quinn clenches his fists under the table as Emmet talks excitedly--more excitedly than Quinn has ever heard him, past or future--about everything and anything he can.

Emmet so dearly, desperately wants a _friend,_ and Quinn can't be that.

* * *

45.

Emmet goes out to work the next day, and Quinn takes a walk.

He goes down to the city center, pressed on all sides by the noise and the lights and the people, simultaneously all too colorful and all so horribly homogeneous. Business's face leers out from every street, off billboards and posters and TV screens.

It's unpleasant.

Quinn's stopped no less than three times on his way by routine security checks, no more or fewer than anyone else would be, and they're executed with no fanfare and no alarms. Whoever Jean's friend was, they were thorough.

The security robots tell him to have a nice day, and he continues walking, feeling like there's a target on his back all the while.

Sometime around noon, he makes it to the corner of Sixth and Elm, the place they'd found Emmet seizing on the ground with an artifact stuck to his back over two years ago. It was a construction site then, Quinn remembers, part of Business's second wave of major renovations and rebuilding, which in hindsight was likely to prepare for Taco Tuesday, so everything would be frozen and perfect.

It wasn't a construction site when Quinn left the future, and it isn't a construction site now. There's no special landmark here. It's just plain streets and plain blocks of office buildings, each one grey and dignified and completely indistinguishable from the next.

It's the last place Quinn would ever expect to find the key to destroying Business.

...so where is it?

He remembers finding Emmet in what was then a pile of rubble and is now a printing office. He'd looked into surveillance footage, trying to trace where Emmet emerged from. Emmet definitely first appeared with the Piece of Resistance about half a block due east, but how he'd _gotten_ it was a mystery. Had he dug it out? Had it simply...appeared?

If it's the latter case, there's nothing Quinn can do, but if it's the former and it's somewhere here, it can't possibly be _in_ the buildings, where Business would have seen it and immediately thrown it into the endless abyss. It can't be anywhere out in the open where the cameras could find them, either.

That just leaves...underground.

If it's underground, it can't intersect any of the Master Builder tunnels, or they would have found it ages ago. Perhaps that's not much to go on, but it's at least a start.

He takes a deep breath. It won't be too much trouble to look through some maps and start planning, but there's nothing he can do right here, right now.

He heads back to the train.

* * *

46.

When Emmet comes back home from work, Quinn is reading a heavily dog-eared book about home gardening for beginners. It's not really out of personal interest--Quinn's never had the space or time for horticulture beyond the miniature tree he kept on his balcony, which is somewhat esoteric for a general gardener-to-be. But there are fun little notes in the margins and doodles over some of the photos that seem to have been made over the course of several years, if the shifts in handwriting and drawing ability are any indication. With some imagination, Quinn can vaguely trace out Emmet's increasing experience with plants.

It's nice to see at least one thing about Emmet's life that isn't crushingly awful.

But that's besides the point. Emmet comes home, cheerfully says hello, then goes off to take a shower. Fifteen minutes later, he's back and dressed up in a slightly oversized button-up and jeans and says, "Quinn, let's go!"

Quinn blinks at him. He's sure Emmet didn't mention them going anywhere, today or yesterday. Slowly, he takes his pen out and asks what Emmet means.

"Oh, uh," Emmet says, his face turning bright red, "I thought, since you came over and all, we should go out for dinner, because that's like a family thing to do." He grins somewhat shakily. "My treat?"

//Emmet,// Quinn writes, //I can't go out to eat. I can't take my mask off in public.//

Emmet's expression falls all at once. "...oh. I forgot." He sighs, and says, "Sorry. I guess I messed up again."

And, well, that's not right.

//It's okay, Emmet,// Quinn responds. //We can still go out tonight. Like the park, or the movies.//

"Really?"

Quinn nods. //We have leftovers from yesterday. Let's eat and then we can go out.//

Emmet's face lights up, and Quinn wonders if this isn't so horribly cruel.

* * *

Facing the city is easier with Emmet, and not just because it means Quinn doesn't need to take the train. Emmet talks like he's bursting at the seams, and his cheerful voice is a familiar, grounding presence in a swirling maelstrom of overwhelming colors and faces. It feels normal, normal enough that Quinn doesn't feel like everyone's watching and waiting for him to slip.

They go see a movie, Dinosaur Land 12 or something like that, and it's fun and cheesy and undoubtedly just like the other eleven Dinosaur Land movies. Well, it's not like Quinn's seen those, so he still enjoys it.

It's well after dark when they get out of the theater and start walking back. The air is still cold--easing out of winter, but not quite there yet--and the street lamps swathe the ground in soft light that shines yellow and orange off of the snow.

As they walk, Emmet talks about how cool it would be to have a pet velociraptor despite the two hour explanation they just watched as to why that was a _bad_ idea, and he waves to people as they pass. He seems to know a lot of people's names, even though nobody knows his.

As slow as they're walking, and as late as it is, it's inevitable they get flagged for a routine security check. Emmet hands them his ID while Quinn rummages in his pocket for his wallet.

"So, what are you doing out tonight?" the officer asks, and Quinn freezes.

He looks up, directly into Bad Cop's face.

This...might be bad.

"We saw Dinosaur Land 12!" Emmet says. "Have you seen it? It's really good, and there's lots of dinosaurs."

Bad Cop hums as he scans Emmet's card and hands it back. He looks at Quinn, then says, "And your relation is...?"

"Oh! Quinn's my uncle!" Emmet replies. "And he's really cool, he's teaching me how to cook!"

Quinn offers his ID, feeling numb in the arms in a way that has nothing to do with the cold.

Bad Cop takes it and rubs his thumb over the plastic. "Uncle, huh?" he says as he scans it. He pauses much longer than necessary to look at the information on his reader. "It says you're visiting. How long will that be, Quinn?"

 _{No more than three weeks,}_ Quinn signs.

Bad Cop still doesn't return his ID. "And what are you...doing on your visit?"

 _{I'm spending time with my nephew, Officer,}_ Quinn replies, and it's fortunate that his hands don't shake.

Bad Cop shoots a skeptical look at Emmet. "Your nephew. Right." Slowly, he offers Quinn's ID back.

Quinn tries to take it, but Bad Cop doesn't let it go.

"Make sure not to go out too late," Bad Cop says, looking directly at Quinn. "Someone might think you're doing something suspicious. You don't want to get into trouble with the police, do you?"

Quinn smiles at Bad Cop from behind his mask and tugs on his ID again. This time Bad Cop lets him take it.

"Have a good night," Bad Cop tells them.

"You, too!" Emmet says.

It takes a lot for Quinn to not walk away as fast as possible.

* * *

47.

That night, after Emmet goes to bed, Quinn draws his curtains closed and pulls out his maps. He lays them flat on his bed, side by side.

There are sewer tunnels and the Master Builder's rat nest and the streets of Bricksburg and the subway. Somewhere in these maps, there's blank space where the Piece of Resistance is hiding. Unfortunately, there's not much he can tell from seeing these maps individually.

He rolls out a large sheet of grid paper and takes out a ruler. He picks up the satellite image map and starts sketching.

He's got a lot of work ahead of him.

* * *

48.

Days pass.

Quinn spends a lot of time at the corner of Sixth and Elm, tracing out the streets and distances between the buildings. His maps are of the entire city, after all, and that kind of resolution only gets him so far.

He doesn't run into Bad Cop again, but the other security checks everywhere don't really fill him with confidence. He can admit he's a bit high-strung these days, but considering the circumstances, he thinks that can be forgiven.

Spending so much time out in the cold is doing no favors for his health, though. Less than a week into his visit and he thinks he's running a mild fever again. It's nothing he can't deal with, but it's perhaps something he _shouldn't_ be, since his health is barely in a state to ride out a mild cold, much less severe hypothermia. His medication isn't a magical cure-all.

When he's not trying to divine the location of the Piece of Resistance, he's drinking tea or cooking or sleeping or doing research on underground building codes at the library.

Working around Emmet isn't too bad. The man lives life on a strict schedule and cohabiting with him is comfortable enough, despite his inexplicable tendency to shout at his apartment in the mornings. He's relatively clean and is happy to keep to himself from time to time and, more importantly, doesn't ask questions.

Emmet, for his part, seems totally unaware of Quinn's work. That's probably for the best. Plausible deniability, though as far as a defense against Business goes, that doesn't get much.

For someone who's so clearly starved for attention and familial contact, Emmet has asked astoundingly few questions about Quinn's life and their supposedly shared family. Quinn's not even sure if Emmet actually believes they're related, or if he's just not bringing anything up about it because he doesn't want the illusion to end.

Emmet's happier than Quinn's ever seen him, but Quinn can't help but feel like it's a front. Emmet keeps bringing home little gifts, chocolates and pulpy novels and novelty face masks with bright colors and cute animal mouths, as if they'll slow the time counting down to when Quinn finally has to leave.

The soundtrack of the apartment is constant chatter, with Emmet talking non-stop like a faucet with a broken valve, a lot like he sometimes would do in the days immediately after Taco Tuesday. It took him months to cool down and talk a bit more moderately, and Quinn thinks that Emmet might just...have too many things jumbled in his head, dying to be released. He feels like he has to get it out while he can, because there will never be another chance.

Quinn listens and responds in the ways he can, but he can tell it's not enough. It's not enough because in the end, he'll be gone, and nothing will change that.

What will happen to Emmet?

In this time and place, Emmet will never get to be the Special, never meet all of his Master Builder friends or go on an adventure to realize there's something more to him than someone who's boring, or dumb, or plain. He'll never save the world by talking down a megalomaniac, and he'll never be the one to extend a hand in peace to villains like him, with blood on their hands and too much history.

Will things change after Business goes down? Will people notice him then, when the rules have all collapsed in on themselves and all that's left is people?

Quinn feels like he's stealing something from Emmet, by insinuating himself into the destined chain of events like this. Not glory or fame, Emmet had never cared for those, but friendships and a sense of self.

He tries to be kind, to guide Emmet and show him there are people who will care, and hopes that when his time is up, Emmet will know he's not destined to be alone forever.

It's the best he can do, to try.

* * *

49.

Quinn is roused from sleep in the middle of the night by someone knocking loudly on the door. He gets up and goes to see who it is, along with Emmet, who is apparently a much lighter sleeper than Quinn realized.

Quinn gets the door and he's not sure _who_ he expects to see at this hour in Bricksburg, where curfew is heavily enforced, but it is definitely _not_ Bad Cop.

Bad Cop in full uniform, who does _not_ look happy.

"Quinn," he growls. "I'd like to talk."

Quinn glances back at Emmet, then to Bad Cop again. _{About what?}_

"I'd like to talk," Bad Cop repeats. "In private. Somewhere else. I don't think your _nephew_ needs to hear this."

Quinn nods and motions for Emmet to head back, then goes into the hallway with Bad Cop.

Bad Cop grabs his wrist and walks him out of the building. Quinn, who isn't wearing a coat, shivers from the cold. Bad Cop doesn't seem to notice.

They go to a parking lot and Bad Cop pushes Quinn into a service room, which is small and dimly lit, but at least not freezing. Bad Cop closes the door behind them and collapses against it. He looks up at the ceiling and takes his sunglasses off to rub the bridge of his nose.

"Sorry," he says. "But this is the safest place to talk. There aren't any cameras or mics in here."

_{What happened?}_

"They got my parents," Bad Cop says, his voice strained. "I can't get ahold of them anywhere. I...I don't know what to do."

Quinn's heart leaps into his throat. _{Your parents?}_

"I don't know, they were...going on a trip and they got attacked on their way to the city by Master Builders. The camera feeds didn't show more than that." His jaw tightens. "They shouldn't even know who my parents are."

Camera feeds. Right, of course there were camera feeds, there are cameras everywhere.

 _{Who took them?}_ Quinn asks.

"What?" Bad Cop makes a face. "I...there were three of them. A tall guy with a cape, some girl with long hair, and a guy in a blue spacesuit."

Benny. So his parents contacted Benny after all, and they...probably staged this capture. Hopefully. Which means his parents are okay, they're somewhere safe and off the grid, out in Cloud Cuckooland or something. He exhales.

"I'd appreciate a little sympathy," Bad Cop says. "I'm not happy right now."

 _{They're fine,}_ Quinn says. _{They're just going into hiding.}_

Bad Cop gives him a flat look. "Hiding."

 _{So Business doesn't come after them,}_ Quinn replies. _{I told them to hide.}_

"You...you gave my parents to the _Master Builders?"_ Bad Cop snarls.

 _{I trust Benny,}_ Quinn says. _{And they don't know they're your parents. At most, they know they're related to me.}_

Not unless they said something, but Ma and Pa were smarter than that.

Bad Cop visibly takes a deep breath and counts. "You. Know my parents."

There's not really anything Quinn can respond with except a nod.

Bad Cop steeples his fingers. "And my parents. They know you?"

Quinn nods again.

"Quinn," Bad Cop says after a long pause. "Who are you?"

Quinn doesn't answer.

"I'm not deaf, I've heard the rumors about you," Bad Cop continues. "They say you're my cousin, or brother, or...something. Never mind that I've never _heard_ of you. I dismissed it out of hand because it was absurd, but you _know my parents_ and _they know you._

"I'm trying very hard to give you the benefit of the doubt, Quinn, but you're making it extremely difficult right now."

Quinn can imagine, but that's not enough to make him talk.

 _{How did you find out about the attack?}_ Quinn asks.

Bad Cop sighs. "Business told me. Said I should check in on my parents."

_{Business was keeping tabs on them?}_

Bad Cop stares at Quinn's hands, and realization slowly creeps across his face. "You told them to hide from Business," he breathes. "Oh, oh, no. He wouldn't--would he?" He puts his face in his hands and takes deep breaths, trying to...trying to...something. He looks up after what might be an entire minute and asks, "They're safe? You're sure?"

Quinn nods.

"And you...do you know where they are?"

Quinn shakes his head.

Bad Cop sucks in a breath, then lets it out in a huff. "Okay. Okay. Fine. Everything's a mess, I still don't know who you are, my parents have been captured by Master Builders, but at least they're safe. Fine. I can work with it." His mouth twists, and he gestures to the door. "Get out of here. Go back to your fake nephew. Don't do anything funny."

Quinn goes.

* * *

Later, he fires off a text to Benny from his temporary phone.

<< benny?

<< this is q

He stares as the sending animations next to his texts pop up, then turn into error icons. Trying again doesn't work, either. Wherever Benny is now, he's out of touch.

Quinn takes a deep breath and puts the phone back into his pocket. He just has to trust.

* * *

50.

"Hey, Quinn?" Emmet asks over breakfast the next day.

Quinn looks up.

"What was that thing you were doing with the cop? Like, uh, with your hands. You did it last time, too."

 _{Like this?}_ Quinn signs.

"Yeah, that thing," Emmet says.

So Quinn explains sign language. It's not the most involved or sophisticated explanation, but it gets the message across.

"Oh, that's super cool!" Emmet says as he tries to sign 'nice to meet you'. "That must be like, way easier than writing everything all the time! Can I learn it? You know, for the next time you come over!"

It's unlikely there will be a next time, but Quinn doesn't say so. Instead, he walks Emmet through a few simple signs and the first five letters of the alphabet until Emmet needs to leave for work.

"Don't worry, Quinn, I'll get super good at sign language!" Emmet says, signing what looks like an extremely loose 'my car is made of ham'.

Well, Quinn thinks, at least he's enthusiastic.

* * *

51.

On the tenth day, Quinn figures out where the Piece of Resistance is.

It's not a dramatic discovery. It comes at the end of a four hour long drawing session where he fills in the space needed for electricity conduits, and at the end of it all, there's only one space in the block-wide radius that's been untouched by infrastructure, Master Builder tunnels, subways, sewers, and pipe lines and large enough to hold something as large as the Piece of Resistance.

The only way to access it is from the inside of an office building, going down. So that's what he'll have to do.

There's really no way to sneak out after curfew without getting caught. Last time, he'd been escorted by Bad Cop, so he hadn't tripped any alarms, but this time? He's only got himself to work with.

The only way he can be there after dark to search at his leisure is if he goes there early and waits out the curfew.

He makes his preparations during the day. He packs his map, his emergency tools, his medication, and Bad Cop's blaster, then puts everything else into his suitcase. He bundles himself up, multiple shirts and a warm coat, then writes a note to Emmet.

It's short and to the point, saying that he's gone out for the night and that if he hasn't returned by the next night, he's not coming back and his suitcase and everything in it should be destroyed. That way, Emmet will keep his disappearance quiet and destroy the evidence that he was there. The last thing Quinn wants to do is incriminate Emmet by association.

Quinn cleans up his room and leaves.

* * *

The train ride down to the city center is slow and rickety, and Quinn's heart feels like it's beating out of his chest with anticipation.

The Piece of Resistance.

It's practically within arm's reach now, and by the end of the day, he should have it in hand. He'll be ready to take on Business.

He takes deep breaths, trying to calm himself. There's really no room for error anymore.

He gets off about four blocks away from his spot, and goes into a library to wait out the time. When they close, he quietly slips away to a small alleyway that's out of camera sight and huddles down to wait.

Quinn listens to the sound of footsteps peter out as the clock ticks past the curfew, and the soft hissing of pneumatics and creaking of mechanical joints replaces them. Nightly patrols.

He gives it half an hour before he edges out and starts walking. He remembers the patrol routes fairly intimately, having designed them to begin with. The path he takes is slow and circuitous, taking over twenty minutes, but he avoids any robots, which he counts as a victory.

He stops less than half a block from the building he needs to get into. All the building lights are off, and the street is motionless and silent and so incredibly large without people to fill it. It makes Quinn feel so much more visible, out here in the open.

Of course, there are guard outposts _around_ the buildings, and there's no way to sneak around them. That's fine. He came prepared.

He pulls out Bad Cop's blaster and removes the power cell. It's not good for many shots anymore, and he's got a better use for it now.

He reaches into his bag and takes out the EMP generator he'd prepared long before he came to Bricksburg. It's jury-rigged, so the range is poor, but hooked up to a blaster power cell, the voltage is high enough to interrupt even the best of Bad Cop's robots.

He clips the power cell into the EMP generator and walks out, his thumb ready on the switch. He doesn't bother with stealth.

They spot him immediately, of course. They yell that it's past curfew and that he will have to report to the police department or something like that, but Quinn doesn't really listen. It's not like he intends to comply. He walks up to the building, and just as blasters are drawn, he flips the switch.

There's no flash, just a soft hum and a few sparks from the EMP generator, but the robots shudder and collapse around him all the same. Quinn tosses the EMP device down and runs--it won't last very long, and he doesn't need it now. Reinforcements will arrive within minutes.

Up to the building, key in the codes. Business had given him universal access codes, back in the day, and they serve him well now. The door unlatches and Quinn goes in.

And then, when the door locks behind him, he takes his walking stick and smashes it against the window. It takes three hits, but the glass shatters and the alarm goes up. Iron shutters slam down around the building.

Anti-theft measures, meant to hold thieves until reinforcements can arrive. They'll keep the robots from following after him.

Quinn goes, as fast as he can, down the hallways drowned with flashing red light. From experience he knows it'll take at least fifteen minutes to disable the anti-theft measures, and if he's not out of here by then, it's over.

Down the stairs. Back of the hall. Turn left, go forward, take the third right.

The final place is a service closet with concrete floor and a single bare light bulb. It smells like it hasn't been used in years, and there's no way out.

No way out but down.

Quinn takes a deep breath. Braces himself. Puts his right hand flat on the cold concrete, tries to block out the wailing sirens.

He closes his eyes. He remembers the trick, buried in the center of his mind like a deadly parasite. His stomach turns, but he reaches out, reaches down into that dark pit of his psyche. See the join lines. See where things connect and break and--

White light fills his eyes, splits into blue lines, tracing down into the ground, up the walls, crossing each other in blindingly blue wireframe mesh all around him.

And then... _push._

Power surges within him, pulses down into the ground, and he feels it shake the foundations, crumble the concrete and rip through rebar like ribbons. It flies up and around him in a vortex of violent green energy, but he pushes through, keeps pushing down until he hears a sickening _crack._

The ground tears away beneath him and he falls.

* * *

It's a long way down. He's not sure how long it is, but when he finally hits the ground, it's with a lot more pain than he would have liked and a lot less being dead than he expected. He gets up slowly. He seems to be intact, miraculously, even if he's bruised from hitting his walking stick wrong and his legs don't feel quite up to supporting his weight. His right arm is completely numb, which might be a bad sign, and while he doesn't think he'll vomit this time, his stomach certainly isn't happy, either. He blinks and realizes after a few seconds that his glasses had fallen off at some point.

He pats around and finds them lying a few yards away. They're slightly twisted around the bridge of the nose, but he can still wear them, if uncomfortably. He slides them on and looks up.

He can't even see the surface, so either the fall wasn't straight down, or it's much further than he realized. How he'll get out, he's not sure, but he's not eager to use another Master Builder trick.

He sighs and tries to figure out where he is now. The air is faintly damp and stale-tasting, which isn't a great start. He's in some sort of cave, softly illuminated by glowing red crystals embedded in the walls. One way leads to darkness, and one way leads to light. He follows the light.

It's a long walk, or maybe it just feels that way. The _tap-tap-tap_ of his walking stick echoes in the cave as he limps down the path, along with the faint dripping sound of water off of stalactites. This cave system is enormous, he thinks. How could it ever have gone unnoticed?

Quinn walks, and as he gets further, he feels that electric power in the air again, like a faint buzzing pressure running against his skin. It feels uncomfortably like when Master Builders use their abilities near him and it puts him on edge, but he pushes forward regardless.

And there--set in a cradle of ruby-red stones, is the Piece of Resistance.

It's large. Almost as tall as his arm is long, and almost as wide as a person. It's a flat red color that doesn't shine, and it's monolithic in appearance--a simple rectangle with no embellishments. Despite its plain appearance, there's a _presence_ to it, something that makes the air around it heavy and hard to breathe.

He reaches out for it and feels it resist. That electric feeling pushes back at him, attempting to ward him off, and he knows.

He knows he isn't meant to take it, but he has to. He can't save B without it.

He lunges through the electricity, and his fingers meet warm stone.

* * *

???

 _"--you_ can't _be the Special, it's impossible--"_

Lights. Burning. There are words, but only a few seem to--

_"--what happened, he must have done something to her, she won't wake--"_

Ice. It's cold, crushing all around, drowning out the words and noise in bubbles and rushing blood--

_"--now. Come out, Special, I've got a little surprise for you, and I think--"_

He sees Business's face. It's too close, much too close, and there's a hand under his chin and pain, lancing pain in his face and throat, but how--

 _"--kind of idiot? How is this supposed to_ save _me?"_

B. B, he's so close, he's right there, if only he can _reach--_

Blackness crashes down into freefall and endless abyss. Quinn falls, falls, falls, nothing to hold onto, nothing to stop him, but--

_"--all your fault! If you'd just stopped--"_

Fire. There's fire everywhere, and he knows he did it. The heat burns the sweat right off his face, and it smells like burning plastic and smoke, acrid and toxic, just like--

_"You can't save the world."_

A flash of white, then nothing.

_i know._


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Piece of Resistance causes more problems than it solves.

52.

_"Wake up."_

Quinn hisses. Everything...hurts. His head feels too full, and he can't--

"Wake _up!"_

Quinn's eyes snap open. He tries to move, only to find he's been cuffed to a table.

Bad Cop sits across from him, scowling.

"About time," he growls. "You have thirty seconds to explain what the _heck_ is going on."

Quinn looks down at his wrists. There's barely any slack; he can't sign. Panicked, he looks back up at Bad Cop.

"What--" he tries to say, but there's nothing but a puff of air.

"I'm not going to ask this again," Bad Cop says. "Who are you? And why are you _wearing my face?"_

Quinn's eyes widen. His mask is off.

"B--" he tries, but again, there's no sound. He grits his teeth and shakes his wrists, cuffed to the table.

"You're an idiot if you think I'm going to uncuff you," Bad Cop says. "I saw that building you destroyed, and let me tell you, I'm impressed that you would run such a long game, _Master Builder--"_

Quinn rattles his cuffs again, more urgently. He spells out PLEASE with his left hand. I CANT TALK.

Bad Cop's eyes narrow, and he growls irritably. He takes out a pen and places it next to Quinn's right hand.

Of course. Quinn's never written anything in front of Bad Cop because his handwriting would have given him away instantly. Bad Cop doesn't know he's left-handed.

Quinn flexes his left hand, reaching for the pen, and Bad Cop slides it over along with a sheet of paper.

Quinn clicks the pen, then writes, //I'm sorry.//

 _"Answer the question,"_ Bad Cop snarls.

Quinn takes a deep breath. //I'm Good Cop.//

* * *

Bad Cop's response is calm, all things considered.

Calm meaning he grabs his chair and bodily flings it at the wall with a resounding crash, then comes back to the table and slams his hands down. "Quinn. I am _not_ in the mood to joke around. _Answer me properly_ or I _will_ hurt you."

Quinn purses his lips and writes a single word.

//Rowan.//

Bad Cop stares at his name, written by a stranger's hand. He starts growling again, and Quinn continues writing.

//You said that we couldn't both be Ciaran, so you picked your own name. Pa always told us stories about how the rowan tree out front protected the house from witches and evil spirits, and you liked that, so you made that your name.//

Bad Cop's mouth is open like he wants to speak, but he doesn't.

//But you stopped using it after the first year with Business, after the first time you had to torture a Master Builder. She was twenty-two years old with red hair, and she gave up her friends after you pulled her fingernails out. She begged you to kill her, and you did. You strangled her for over two minutes, even though she was dead within the first thirty seconds. Business punished you for killing her by mistake, and you never told him you did it on purpose.//

The blood drains from Bad Cop's face. Quinn continues.

//I stopped using my name after that, too, but you kept calling me Ciaran because you thought at least I deserved to have a normal, human name. I never agreed with you, but I let you use it because you were the only person who could make my name sound right.//

Quinn flips his paper over.

//I am Good Cop. I came back from the future and I'm going to stop Business.//

Bad Cop is silent, his knuckles bone-white on the edge of the table. He stays that way for a long time, looking at Quinn up and down, side to side. After a few minutes, he reaches down and pulls Quinn's gloves off.

There, stark in the fluorescent lights, are discolored chemical burn scars. Bad Cop runs his fingers over them, carefully inspecting Quinn's hands.

"I saw these," Bad Cop says. "When I grabbed you out of the snow and changed your clothes. I thought you burned yourself, not..."

He hesitates, then lets go of Quinn's hands. He leans heavily on the table.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Bad Cop asks. "If you really are Good Cop. You know I would have trusted you."

//You wouldn't have believed me. You might have talked to Business,// Quinn writes. //And I didn't think you would believe me unless you trusted me first.//

Bad Cop takes a long breath in, a long breath out. He takes his sunglasses off and pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath that seems less than pleased.

Quinn sets his pen down, his mind scrambling for answers to questions Bad Cop must have.

What happened? Why did you come back in time? What are you trying to do?

Between Business, between Taco Tuesday, between that and everything that followed, there's so much to say, and so much of it he can't.

He...doesn't want B to know about his death.

"The future, huh?" Bad Cop says after an excruciatingly long pause. "And everything you did..." He trails off slowly and there's another pause as he puts his hands to his face and murmurs, "Oh, god, I almost _shot_ you."

Quinn blinks. That was so long ago that he'd almost forgotten about it.

"I would have shot you in the face and I'd have uncovered you afterwards and..." Bad Cop drags his hands down his face, and his eyes seem to be focused somewhere very far away. "I...I don't know what would have happened. You've been trying all these _stupid_ things to...help me or something, and I would have _shot you_ in the _face._ "

Bad Cop takes a long, shuddering breath, then goes to pick up his chair and collapse into it.

"And you...you almost killed yourself coming after me," he says, more to himself than to Quinn. "Your temperature was so low when I found you, and I almost _didn't_ find you because of the snow, and then your fever was so high, I thought you were going to give out, and you didn't have any _medicine_ \--"

Bad Cop looks up at Quinn. "Don't do that," he says. "You...don't do that. Ever again. I don't need you to kill yourself trying to...rescue me or whatever. That's...that's not what you're supposed to do."

Quinn clenches his fists. It's not Bad Cop's place to tell him what he can and can't do. Especially not when Bad Cop has scars trailing down his arms, scars splattered across his hands from doing the exact same thing. Especially not after suppressing him for _years,_ just to keep him quiet or whatever other bungled reasoning Bad Cop got through his head.

Quinn's not letting Bad Cop make choices for him anymore.

He rattles his cuffs and spells out, LET ME GO.

Bad Cop looks at him and sighs deeply. "What are you going to do? If I let you go, what are you going to do?"

STOP BUSINESS.

Bad Cop takes his helmet and and flings it on the ground. "That's not a _plan!_ " he roars. "What, you're just going to charge into Octan and _fix everything?_ There are _guards,_ there are _cameras,_ there are _laser sharks._ " He gets to his feet and stalks towards the table. "You're going to put one foot in there and _die,_ and if you think that won't happen, you're an idiot."

Quinn grits his teeth. Oh, he wishes he could just _scream._

Bad Cop steps closer and jabs a finger at him. "Business is going to kill you. He'll torture you. He'll laugh over your corpse and hang it up for everyone to see. Is that what you want? Do you really think some magic artifact will help?"

Quinn growls. LET ME GO, he spells again.

"Tell me," Bad Cop says, leaning over the table. "What are you going to do? You're going to go out there with your useless hunk of Resistance, and what? _Kill_ Business?"

Quinn glares at Bad Cop.

That seems to be answer enough, because Bad Cop says, "No. You won't. It won't be that easy, and you don't want to go that far."

But it's not up to B, what he does and doesn't want to do, Quinn thinks. It never was, and it certainly isn't now.

He extends his fingers, palm flat against the table. He can feel the power roiling in him, rising, sick and caustic, but he's so angry that he can't feel it eating at him from the inside out.

Bad Cop feels it too, and his eyes widen as he takes a step back with a hiss.

If B isn't going to let him go, Quinn thinks, then he'll do it himself.

The power rushes through him, down to his fingertips, and there's a flash of green light and a screech as the metal table and the cuffs attached to them twist apart, ripping themselves to pieces. Metal bites into Quinn's wrists as they warp and pull, but he ignores it and pushes forwards. The table folds like flimsy aluminum and drops to the floor with a resounding crash.

Quinn stands. _{Don't tell me what to do,}_ he signs, blood dripping down his arms, soaking into his sleeves. _{I'm stopping Business, whether you like it or not.}_

"It's not about what I want," Bad Cop hisses. "It's that you _can't,_ and you should _accept_ that."

That's enough.

Quinn takes two steps and punches Bad Cop in the face. Bad Cop staggers and grabs at his jaw, then faces Quinn. He bares his teeth, and there's blood on them.

"Then _go,"_ he snarls. "Take your precious Piece of Resistance, _Master Builder,_ go and fight Business just like you want to. Take your trip to an early grave."

Quinn grits his teeth and spells, ROWAN--

Bad Cop grabs his wrist. "Don't call me that," he says. "You're not my brother. And you never will be."

Quinn feels it again, sick energy crushing his heart, filling his lungs, seeping into his bones. It roars in him, burning acrid and angry in a way that--

He tamps it down, down. He won't lose control of himself. Not here. Not now.

He snatches his hand away, spits at Bad Cop, and leaves, grabbing the Piece of Resistance as he goes.

Bad Cop doesn't try to stop him.

* * *

53.

It's not until several minutes and several blocks later that Quinn calms down enough to realize he can't feel either of his hands.

He can feel faint throbbing in his fingertips, but not the cold, not his scratchy sleeves, not the jagged cuts across his wrists from twisted handcuffs.

He collapses against a cold brick wall in some alleyway and takes a deep breath. The Piece of Resistance slips out of his numb fingers into shallow snow and he tries to make his shaky hands into fists--his left hand gets about halfway there, but his entire right arm is practically dead weight.

That's...bad.

What can he do? He can't go after Business like this. He can barely use a keypad; deactivating Business's weapon of mass destruction is altogether impossible. He'd end up handing the Piece of Resistance right to Business, and then where would he be?

He stays there for a long time, just trying to think. He breathes in. He breathes out.

It's quiet. Bad Cop hasn't sent anyone after him, hasn't gone after him himself.

It's better that way. Quinn can't see him now. Not after...that. He tries not to think about it, tries not to hear Bad Cop's voice echoing in his ears, not to hear _"You're not my brother."_

His breath hitches and he bites his tongue to keep any noise from slipping out.

He shouldn't care. He _shouldn't._ He knows Bad Cop says things he doesn't mean, he knows it doesn't matter even if he _does_ mean it. Quinn's Bad Cop is dead, has been dead for two and a half years, and will be dead forever. Quinn knows. He's never going to hear Bad Cop's voice in his head again, never be able to talk to him in confidence, never feel his _warmth._

This time isn't his, and this Bad Cop isn't his brother. Not in the way Quinn wants him to be, no matter how much he wishes he was, but Quinn can save him, and he will. That's enough.

That's enough.

...it's not.

He clumsily swipes at his eyes and tries to get his breathing under control. He can't afford to cry. Not like this, out in the open when there are so many other things he needs to do. He has the Piece of Resistance, and he's just a stone's throw away from taking Business down.

But he's shaking, he's weaponless, and he's down an arm and a half. Going now would be as suicidal as Bad Cop says it is, and Quinn may be a lot of things, but overconfident isn't one of them.

He gathers himself, takes off his coat, and bundles the Piece of Resistance in it. He's going home.

He has work to do.

* * *

54.

The walk back is anticlimactic.

There's no fight, no pursuit. Just a long, long walk through the outskirts of Bricksburg in the dead of night. Quinn has to stop every so often to re-grip the Piece of Resistance bundled under his arm, but there's no stops or detours otherwise. He walks slowly down half-lit streets, with nothing but the sound of slushy snow underfoot.

The Piece of Resistance makes Quinn nervous. It hums in a way that resonates deep in his bones, and it puts off an electric air that feels like something feral and unnatural. Untameable. 

It feels wrong in the same way that Master Builder power feels wrong, the way it buries deep into his soul and sends out toxic roots that can't be burned away. He can feel it pulsing in his veins, vibrating against the inside of his skin, and it feels like something that _shouldn't be there._

Master Building was a mistake. He never should have tried it, never should have infected himself with this...curse. It makes his stomach turn, feeling something so wholly _alien_ inside him, but he grits his teeth and bears it because he's made his choices, and now he has to live with them.

He ends up at the bakery sometime around four in the morning. This time, there's no Benny asking for clarification, nobody at all looking for answers or trying to talk.

It's a trial to get up to the loft with the Piece of Resistance slung over his shoulder and only one working arm, but he manages it eventually. He drops the godforsaken artifact in the far corner of his loft, and collapses on his futon, unconscious as soon as he hits the ground.

He doesn't sleep well.

* * *

???.

_"Ciaran?"_

_"Ciaran!"_

...what, rowan?

 _"Why did you do that? You just grabbed me and_ ran. _Switching like that hurts, Ciaran."_

sorry. i didn't mean to hurt you.

_"Why'd you do it? I just wanted to go out to the lake."_

_"Ciaran?"_

i don't like the lake.

_"What do you mean? We go there all the time."_

we go in the summer. it's different in the winter.

_"What are you talking about? It's the same lake."_

i just don't like it, okay? ma says there's monsters in it and it's cold and i don't like it.

_"There's no monsters in the lake, Ciaran. Did something happen?"_

no.

_"You can tell me about it. We're brothers. I won't laugh or anything."_

nothing happened, rowan. just drop it, okay?

_"Are you sure?"_

look, if there's anything to tell you, i'll tell you. that's what brothers do, right?

_"Ciaran, you're not lying again, are you?"_

_"Right?"_

of course not. i'd never lie to you, rowan.

* * *

55.

"Quinn?"

Quinn slowly opens his eyes with a groan. His neck hurts, and so does his back--he must have slept funny. He tries to push himself up to a sitting position, then remembers that his arms aren't completely working at the moment.

Right. That happened.

Quinn creaks his way to an upright position. His clothes are all rumpled from sleeping in them and he's got a headache the size of the moon. He knows he was dreaming, but he can't remember--

He rubs his eyes. It was...Rowan, he thinks. He hasn't thought about their childhood in ages. Why now?

"Quinn? You there?" Jean asks a second time through the loft trapdoor.

Quinn cracks his back and goes to pull the door open.

"It _is_ you," Jean says. "Thank goodness. I saw water tracked on the floor, and I thought someone might have come in again."

Quinn's eyebrows go up. Again?

Jean pushes the trapdoor all the way up and sits on the landing. "A few days after you left, someone broke into the bakery. They didn't steal any money or break anything that I could see, but they might have gone through your electronics."

Quinn tries to reply, but his dead right arm makes that venture less than successful. Scowling, he takes his phone out--and it's infuriatingly difficult to do even that with his numb fingers--and types, //did thet cine uo here//

Jean squints at the phone screen and reads it a few times. "Did they...come up here? I don't think so. I really hope not." They gesture to Quinn's hands. "Did something happen?"

//unjurwd// After a second, he continues, //who btoke un//

"If I knew, I'd tell you," Jean says. "They didn't break the lock or anything. I only knew they came in because they spilled one of the sugar bags and didn't clean up very well."

Quinn huffs and looks skyward. If the lock wasn't forced, then it was probably picked or popped open by a Master Builder, and it wouldn't surprise Quinn in the slightest if one of _them_ had decided to break into the bakery.

The idea makes his skin crawl. He's not worried anyone will figure out his identity, because it's not like he really _has_ any personal items ever since he landed in the past, but someone going into his living space without his knowledge? He's not happy with that, not at all. 

He shakes the thought off. He'll have to check to make sure nothing is out of place, but there's nothing else he can do at this point.

"Anyways, I'm glad you're back, Quinn," Jean says. "I'm glad you didn't get into too much trouble."

For a given definition of 'trouble', and a given definition of 'too much', perhaps, Quinn thinks.

"I'm going to go start the bread," Jean says as they start to head back down the ladder. "And, ah, you..." They make a vague gesture to the lower half of their face. "You look just like your brother, you know. He came in about a day after you left, but he hasn't been back since. Maybe he'll return now that you're here again."

Considering how their last conversation went, Quinn doubts it.

He keeps that to himself.

* * *

56.

The wait is excruciating.

Quinn can flatter himself and say that he's patient by nature, especially when compared to B, but that doesn't mean he _enjoys_ waiting.

He knows how to bide his time and wait for the most opportune moment to strike. There's a value to patience, and he knows it.

The thing is, there's a difference between _choosing_ to wait and being _forced_ to. If things had gone to plan, he _wouldn't_ be waiting. He's got the Piece of Resistance, he's got all of the access codes to get into Octan, and he's got enough of B's trust to ensure he won't get arrested immediately.

But he can't use his right arm, and his left hand is stiff and numb except for some pins and needles. He's sure he'll get better eventually. He'd gotten better last time, after all, but for now, he's not finding that particularly reassuring.

So he pulls together a makeshift sling for his right arm and puts on a new face mask--the only one he has on hand, one of Emmet's brightly-colored novelty face masks with a cat's mouth design on it--and goes down to do what he can.

It's not much. He checks his electronics storage and doesn't find anything missing, or at least, not anything notable, then he tries to do some work. With about thirty percent of a working arm, he can only really move ingredients or keep an eye on the mixer while Jean bustles back and forth and does the real work around the bakery. Jean reassures Quinn that it's fine, but it still chafes that he can't do the things he normally can.

All he can do is wait. He _has_ to, and that's what grates.

* * *

The bakery's pretty sparse. No Lucy, no Benny, no other familiar faces.

"Clientele dropped off after you left," Jean says. "At least the odd sorts. I can't make pastries the same way you do."

Quinn gives them a look. He still doesn't know how closely Jean may or may not be associated with the resistance, or how much they know about Master Builders, but he knows they're not nearly as ignorant as they act.

"They're troublesome, if you ask me," Jean says as they put another pie into the oven. "I don't envy you, Quinn. I think you might have some hard days ahead."

Quinn nods and goes back to scooping flour.

Hard days, indeed.

* * *

57.

At the end of the day, he plans.

When it comes down to it, there's not a lot left to do. He has to get into Octan, avoid security, and take the Piece of Resistance to wherever Business is hiding the Kragle. Put that way, it seems trivial.

Getting access is easy. He knows all of the codes to get in, and he knows how to avoid patrols or circumvent them. If he dresses appropriately, he can just pretend to be, well, himself, and walk straight through. As long as nobody expects him to talk, and robots don't, he'll be able to go right up.

It's the last part that's the problem. He's not sure where the Kragle is, that being one of the few pieces of information Business never saw fit to brag about. It's probably somewhere near Business's Artifact Chamber, being held until Business can put its destructive power to work. Quinn's not even sure _how_ the Piece of Resistance is supposed to actually stop the Kragle, because Emmet had never properly explained that part of the story. All he can really hope for is that it'll become obvious when the time comes, or the situation--and a few other things--will get very sticky, very fast.

He's...he's so close. He really is. He might not have many resources, but he has _information._ Octan is his home turf, and he can navigate it in his sleep. He knows Business, how to play him and fight him--and he's not scared of Business like he used to be, hasn't been since Business took everything away from him. The Piece of Resistance itself is just a few feet away, humming quietly in its eerie way.

And despite all that, Quinn just...doesn't feel ready. He knows how to take the plunge, make the final push, but he's scared.

What if it's not enough?

* * *

???.

_Fire._

_There's ice melting beneath his feet and fire swirling high into the air and acrid smoke saturating the air and cinders falling like black and red-hot snow. The heat is too much, and it burns the sweat right from his skin, scorches him like a branding iron. There's too much of it--he can hardly think, can only watch as the flames dance higher and higher into the black sky._

_This is his fault._

_He was never supposed to be here, nobody was supposed to know about him, and he was hasty, he acted too soon--too soon because he never_ should have--

_...And this is just what happens. He's made his choices. Now he and everyone else has to live with them, mistakes and all._

_Someone pulls on his sleeve, tries to pull him away from the flames, but he can't move, can't even breathe with all of the smoke in the air. He stays there, stock-still, his eyes staring unblinkingly as the buildings--shoddy, old buildings--collapse inwards with a crash as if in slow motion._

_"Get out of here!" he hears behind him through the crackle of fire and splintering wood. "Move! We have to go! We need to get somewhere safe!"_

safe?

_He tears his eyes away from the fire and pushes his way past faceless people. He can leave, but there's nowhere to go. He can hide, but there's nowhere safe, not anymore. He knows, now._

_This is how everything ends._

* * *

58.

Quinn startles awake to the shadows of smoke clinging to the insides of his throat and mouth. It tastes bitter and toxic and it's--

It's not real. It's a dream, that's all.

He tries to shake it off, the wild flames, the heat against his skin, the dryness lodged in his throat, the--

He takes a deep breath that tastes like smoke and ash, and he coughs, force crashing against his ribs like the worst days of his illness. It leaves him doubled over and shaking with tears in his eyes and phantom flames still dancing in his vision, taunting him.

It's not real, he tells himself desperately. It's not real.

But it _will_ be.

He takes some more gasping, shuddering breaths that he can't control, can't stop. The image is seared in his mind and it won't fade, not like a dream should. It's all too close, too _real._

He puts his hand down to try and push himself up and lines flash in his eyes, those endless blue networks breaking everything apart, electricity hums in his fingers even through the numbness that lingers still--

He pulls his hand away as if burned.

What is _happening_ to him? Things shouldn't be like this, but then, how would he know? What if this is punishment for trying to change things that he shouldn't?

He looks up and sees the Piece of Resistance in the corner, glowing ominous red through its thin cloth coverings, and he _knows._

The Piece of Resistance.

Why would it send him this...vision? Was seeing Business nearly end the world once not enough? Was knowing that his _existence_ was nearly enough to kill Benny and who knows how many people _not enough?_

Did he really need to know it would end the world, too?

He squeezes his eyes tight, but he can't stop the visions of insatiable flames and collapsing steel and crumbling brickwork lying in wait in his future, nor can he stop the blue lines that are burned into the back of his eyes, taunting him with the knowledge that he can destroy it all and do nothing more. He can't press them back into that dark corner of his mind like he does with everything else, he can't _control_ its influence over him, and that scares him.

He's not sure how long it takes to gather himself, but eventually he does, however tenuously.

With shaking hands, he takes the Piece of Resistance and buries it far, far away.

* * *

When Quinn comes in late for work later that day, Jean looks at his bandaged fingers and asks if he got hurt.

Quinn doesn't answer.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are moving, with or without Good Cop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From this point on (technically last chapter, actually) is Good Cop's downward spiral, which will continue for some chapters. If you're sensitive to that sort of thing, proceed with caution.

59.

The first patrols arrive that evening.

Quinn is in the back room wheeling bags of flour when he hears the distinctive sound of metal scraping linoleum and softly hissing pneumatics that he could recognize in his sleep.

Robots.

Quinn all but stops breathing as he listens to them come into the bakery. By the sound of the footsteps, there's at least three of them. They stop and say something to the effect that they're searching for a man with a certain appearance and height, known to wear a mask. It's not a hard guess who they're looking for.

Quinn fumbles with his phone. Bad Cop had to have known this would happen. He would have warned him, wouldn't he?

A blank notifications screen stares back at him.

Quinn hears Jean say they don't know anybody like that, with what he can only assume is a completely straight face. Nobody speaks up to refute it.

The robots demand a search of the building. Jean argues with them over it, but it's pretty clear that it's not optional. Soon, those robots will find him back here.

Quinn thinks fast. Robots have facial recognition, but he knows from long hours of verifying their 'matches' that it's hardly foolproof. If Jean backs him up, they won't have enough certainty to grab him or even send photos in for verification.

He takes off his glasses and mask, then pulls his ponytail out. He grabs a handful of flour and dumps it into his hair, working it in until it's more white than black. After a second's hesitation, he smears flour in a long uneven streak across his face, too--with the bakery's poor lighting, the robots will have a heck of a time getting edge detection on his nose and mouth.

Then he picks up a bag of sugar, takes a deep breath, and walks out front.

He sees them just as he turns the corner, four of the standard police robots standing in the center of the bakery. Exactly standard, exactly to specification, with none of the small but numerous modifications he and Bad Cop had added over the years, Quinn notes as he glances across their limbs and joints. Business's robots, not Bad Cop's, and probably fresh off the dies, at that.

 _"We will search the premises,"_ one of the robots says.

Jean glances back at Quinn, then steps aside to let the robots through. They step behind the counter and one of them grabs Quinn roughly by his dead arm, cold steel and hard pressure cutting straight through the numbness, wrapping tight like constricting snakes. It looks him straight in the eyes and there's a soft whirring sound as its cameras focus on his face. Quinn's breath catches in his throat.

The robot pushes him aside and heads towards the back.

The search is quick and efficient--Business would accept nothing less--and they search the entire bakery in about ten minutes. They hesitate over Quinn's electronics bench, but there's nothing incriminating there--broken circuit boards and rolls of wire and packets of resistors, that's all. Anything useful has already been moved to the loft, which they don't search, and to all appearances, don't seem to even realize is there. With the ladder removed, they probably don't.

Search complete, the patrol goes without so much as a by-your-leave.

Quinn watches as they leave, and feels his legs crumple beneath him. He collapses against the counter, heart pounding against his chest, blood rushing in his ears. He can still feel metal fingers wrapped tight around his skin.

* * *

60.

Later that night, before he goes to sleep, Quinn gets a text from an unknown number.

_> > its g._

_> > can you talk_

Quinn hesitates for a moment, then responds:

<< you know I lost my voice.

_> > i meant are you busy_

_> > b is sleeping, i only have a couple of hours_

Subterfuge again. 

<< why are you hiding this from him?

_> > you said youre me_

_> > and i believe you_

_> > you wont talk if he's listening_

_> > i dont think i want him to know this either_

Quinn stares at the screen. It's true, certainly, but he's not a fan of seeing it spelled out so plainly.

<< what do you want?

_> > i need to know what happens_

_> > in the future_

Yeah, Quinn thinks. His younger self is right. He _isn't_ going to talk about that with Bad Cop listening. He doesn't want to talk about Bad Cop suppressing him, he doesn't want to talk about Bad Cop getting hurt, he doesn't want to talk about Bad Cop dying. He left that behind, and he's leaving it there.

<< nothing.

There's a pause that lasts for almost two whole minutes, then:

_> > thats the worst lie ive ever heard_

_> > you wouldnt do all this if nothong happened_

_> > you dindt have to leave all those notes for the master builders we keep finding_

_> > you didnt have to tel lme what b was doing_

_> > you didnt have to get the piece of r_

_> > i wouldnt do any of those things_

_> > so what are you trying to stop_

Quinn purses his lips, then texts back:

<< I don't want to tell you.

<< you know why.

There's another pause.

_> > yeah_

_> > i guess so_

_> > i dont trust you either_

Quinn looks at the phone screen a little longer, then shuts the screen off. Just as he moves to put it away, it buzzes again.

_> > let me talk to b_

Instantly, Quinn's heart leaps into his throat.

<< why?

_> > you know why_

He does. Bad Cop is honest, not like Quinn. Bad Cop wouldn't lie about Business or the end of the world. He'd tell Good Cop everything if he thought it would help.

Well, Bad Cop isn't here.

<< he can't talk.

_> > why not_

<< he doesn't want to.

_> > tell him i want to talk_

<< I can't make him do something he doesn't want to.

There's a few minutes of silence before his younger self replies.

_> > fair enough_

_> > then i guess theres nothing for us to talk about_

_> > i wont text you again_

<< wait

<< the patrols

_> > what_

<< looking for me

<< why didn't b warn me about them

His younger self doesn't respond for what feels like an eternity.

_> > he didnt want to_

_> > sorry_

Quinn stares, long enough that his screen times out and leaves him darkness.

He didn't want to.

Bad Cop didn't _want_ to.

He breathes deeply and his phone slips out of his fingers and onto his futon with a soft _whuff._

He feels like ice.

Those robots could have recognized him, captured him, and taken him to Business. He could have been locked up and tortured, melted down or thrown into the endless abyss. Bad Cop could have been the one to escort him to interrogations and beat him until his mouth was full of blood and broken teeth.

_"You're not my brother."_

He's not. He knows he isn't. He's a stranger wearing Bad Cop's face with a fake name and no history. All he's done over the past months to try and help B, he'd hoped that would count for something. Maybe not as a brother, but as a friend, or an acquaintance, or _anything._

But he can't change himself. He can't change that he's a liar, a killer, a traitor. Bad Cop had helped him be better, be _good,_ but that didn't stop Quinn from pulling the trigger on their parents in the end. He can't help being rotten at the core no matter what good he does. Really, can he blame Bad Cop for turning his back like this?

Quinn might need Bad Cop, but Bad Cop doesn't need him. Bad Cop already has a Good Cop.

_"And you never will be."_

That's all there is to it. 

* * *

???.

_"You want to help them, don't you? Go ahead. Finish the job."_

_He stands there in Business's Artifact Chamber, frozen where he stands. His parents stare back at him, stuck to the ground and eyes wide with horror as they take in Business's metal monstrosity._

no--

_His hands move. Close around the handle of the Kragle, press against the cold trigger. It vibrates under his hands like a snarling animal, straining to attack._

please, don't

_He hefts it. It's heavy, much heavier than he would have expected--or maybe it just seems that way when he aims it at his parents._

stop!

_There's a snap, a clang as the sprayer crashes to the ground. He grabs at his head, he can't afford to--_

_"No! I don't want to!"_

_His voice rings out clear in the room, and it sounds so hollow, so small._

_You have to!_

i can't!

_It's your job, man!_

_He strains against the building pressure in his head and falls to his knees. He's scared and he knows he won't get away with this, but he can't, he can't--_

_"I can't do it," he chokes out. "They're innocent."_

_G, no--_

_Business sneers. "Just as I thought," he says. "Your Good Cop side is making you soft--"_

_There's steel hands around his arms, steel hands holding him still, steel hands that don't budge however he strains against them--_

_The Scepter looms above him._

_It falls, and there's nothing._

* * *

_He falls._

_"--All I want is the Piece of Resistance," Bad Cop growls._

b?

_Light swims into view, mist resolves into objects and people._

_Old West._

_Bad Cop barks orders into his megaphone, and robots snap to action around him. The Special, no, Emmet, stands on a rooftop next to Lucy and Vitruvius, looking down._

this...isn't right.

_"They took the hard way. Fire!"_

_The air fills with the flash and noise of blaster fire and Bad Cop races after the escaping Master Builders._

this isn't what happened.

_Colors smear into one another and swirl around him until they bleed into rainbows and clouds and--_

_Sounds crash against one another all around as rainbow buildings crumble into rainbow rubble. There's fire and explosions and the ground shakes as robots flood into the city, grabbing Master Builders._

_"Take the Master Builder prisoners," Bad Cop barks, unhooking his blaster from his belt as he runs into the fray._

this isn't what happened!

_Flash._

_"--not so Special now, huh?" Business jeers from above. His Kragle machine swishes lazily beneath him like a Kraken observing its prey. Around them, the walls of the Think Tank towers high into the sky, and at the center is Emmet, trapped by Business's robots._

_"Terminate everyone--"_

_Flash._

_"--hope there's still a Good Cop in me--"_

_Flash._

_Emmet holds out the Piece of Resistance. "You don't have to be the bad guy--"_

why

_Cheers. Happy faces. Celebrations amidst the quiet ruins of Bricksburg._

_Lucy smiles. "Emmet, there's something I want to say--"_

why?

_"--Oh, son!"_

_"We're okay, son--"_

why are you showing me this?

* * *

61.

Quinn startles awake to the sound of the bakery door alarm.

Blinking away what he can of his dreams, he grabs his crowbar and creeps downstairs. There's someone banging on the alarm, probably trying to deactivate it.

Quinn grabs them by the back of the sweatshirt and slams them against the wall, his crowbar to their throat.

Lucy stares back at him, eyes wide. She says something, but with the alarm blaring in Quinn's ears, he can't hear what.

Quinn growls and shuts the alarm off, leaving the two of them in tense silence.

Lucy opens her mouth, closes it, then says, "I--I can explain."

Quinn purses his lips and steps back slightly--not enough to take the crowbar away, he's not in nearly good enough spirits for that. He motions for her to continue.

"I, I heard you were back," she says. "And I wanted to talk to you, but the patrols are everywhere now, and, and I couldn't just wait around outside, y'know?"

Quinn glares at her.

"I'm sorry about breaking in, okay?" she says. "Really. A hundred percent. Super sorry." She swallows nervously. "Please, Quinn, I can't really breathe here. I just wanted to talk."

Quinn stares at her a bit more, then steps back. He lowers his crowbar from her neck, but he keeps it ready. She might want to talk, sure, but that can't be all. People who "just want to talk" visit during business hours; they don't break into the building in the dead of night.

Lucy takes a few deep breaths before speaking again. "The patrols are going crazy today. I've never seen so many robots this far out. I heard something big happened. Something like...something like the Piece of Resistance."

Quinn's jaw twitches.

Lucy looks up at Quinn. "But that can't be right. I mean, we'd know if the Special showed up. They'd get out there and be the greatest, most interesting, most important person of all time, and be cool and stuff. And fix everything, that's how the prophecy goes."

Quinn takes a slow, deep breath that tastes like fire and smoke. Not for the first time, he wishes he could speak. He wishes he could grab Lucy by the shoulders and ask her if she thinks this is some kind of game. If she's so blinded by the words of a bogus prophecy that she can't even see what a burden to bear the Piece of Resistance is.

He has phantom flames dancing in his eyes, images of worlds where he shouldn't _be,_ and the knowledge that the fate of the world lies in his steady, murderous hands.

He isn't the Special. He's not great, he's not important. He stole this world of a true hero, just like he stole this life, stole Bad Cop from the dead, stole his parents' murders from the timeline and wiped it all away with his interference.

That was his choice. Now he has to live with it.

"I guess you wouldn't know what's going on," Lucy says after a long pause. "You haven't even been around for the last two weeks." She looks at him. "Where were you?"

It's not as if Quinn can tell her he was in Bricksburg, looking for the Piece of Resistance, so he doesn't move, doesn't respond.

Lucy's eyes narrow. "Fine, I guess I should have expected that, you being allergic to straight answers and all," she says bitterly. "Some great help you are."

She pushes Quinn back and leaves.

* * *

62.

The bakery smells like smoke.

It's thick and cloying in the air and it tastes bitter and toxic and Quinn can't get it out of his mouth no matter how hard he tries.

There's fire and blue lines at the edges of his vision, glinting reds and yellows peeking through ethereal cyan cages, threatening to edge through and burn him alive. He can't even touch the countertops without feeling the toxic hum of Master Builder energy in his bones and seeing jagged lines of light radiate outwards like ripples in a pond.

It's not real. He knows it isn't, but that doesn't make it easier, and it doesn't go away.

Why is this happening to him?

He got rid of the Piece of Resistance, buried it under three feet of gravel and cracked stone as far as he could stand to put it. It shouldn't be able to send him visions like this anymore.

He retreats to the back room and takes a deep breath--a breath so filled with embers and dust that he collapses into a coughing fit that just won't--go away. His mouth and throat burn, and he can't make it stop.

Why?

Why does he need to see this? Why does he need to feel fire crackling at his skin, why does he need to see the world where he dies--as perhaps he should have--and everything is saved?

The Piece of Resistance, it _knows._ It knows that Quinn isn't supposed to be here, isn't supposed to have interfered with some cosmic plan where Emmet or anyone else stumbles into the Piece of Resistance and saves the world because of the good they have that Quinn _doesn't._

It's not going to let him go. It's not going to stop with these visions, it's not going to stop whispering futures and truths he can't stand to know.

He wraps his arms around himself, shaking as his mind flashes with the image of Bad Cop and their parents, celebrating after Business is defeated.

Bad Cop, happy like he hadn't been for years.

No wonder Bad Cop abandoned him. He would be better off without Quinn, without having to constantly intercept Business's ire, without having to act conscience for a heartless brother. The _world_ would be better off without him, with a hero who could actually save something more than his own hide.

Quinn doesn't want to die, but he can't help but feel he's not the one who should have lived.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good Cop needs a reprieve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for consent issues (in non-sexual context) and drowning.

63.

The day drags on.

The smoke gets so bad that Quinn has to stop out and run some errands just so he can _breathe._ He makes his excuses to Jean and leaves as quickly as humanly possible.

He stops smelling the smoke about a block away from the bakery and he pulls his mask down just so he can get a lungful of clean, fresh air.

"Quinn?"

Quinn starts and yanks his mask back on. Who...?

"Quinn!" Benny says, waving as he walks down the street towards him. "Hey, I haven't seen you around lately. How are you doing?"

Quinn shrugs. 

"Hey, that's good," Benny says. "Nothing bad happened, right? That's a good start, y'know?" He claps Quinn on the good arm and says, somewhat softer, "Hey, so, your, uh, I guess they're your parents? They're doing pretty good. We got them somewhere Business will never find them, so you don't have to worry about that. They're really nice, and your dad makes the best cocoa ever."

So Ma and Pa really are okay. That's a relief.

"But basically, they wanted to see you sometime, and uh, obviously we can't take you to where they are. You get that, right? Security and stuff?" Benny continues. "So I thought, hey, why don't you guys do a video call? I mean, since you can't talk, at least this way you can say hi and you can see they're doing a-okay."

Being able to see Ma and Pa...really doesn't sound bad at all. They, at least, still care about him.

Benny makes finger-guns at him. "Yeah? You in? Rad. Here--" He takes out his phone, taps a few buttons, then hands it to Quinn. "Give me your phone number and I'll text you the address. Come around after you're done working, okay?"

Quinn enters his phone number.

* * *

Quinn closes the bakery after Jean leaves, about an hour earlier than he usually locks up--it's not as if he can do much useful work with his arm and the lingering stench of smoke, anyways. He shrugs on a light coat and heads out to wherever Benny is handling this thing.

It turns out to be a nondescript apartment building with red brickwork. It's not exactly clean, but it's otherwise well-maintained, which probably means people actually live here and pay money to do so.

"Quinn? Quinn! Up here!"

Quinn looks up. Benny's leaning irresponsibly far out of the fourth story window and waving at him. Quinn waves back.

"Just wait a sec, okay? I'll be right down!" Benny says. He ducks back into the building--and _leaps_ out of the window.

Quinn's heart jumps into his throat as Benny hurtles towards the ground and he moves to intercept him--as though catching an adult man falling from forty feet wouldn't be a terrible idea for all parties involved--and braces for impact.

Impact doesn't occur. Benny stops falling some two or three feet off the ground, hovers, then floats his way down to the ground, completely unharmed.

Quinn wishes he could say the same for his blood pressure. He forces himself to take a few deep breaths to try and calm his heartbeat.

Benny claps Quinn on the back as if he hadn't almost gotten creamed on the pavement. "All right, let's head up!" He holds out his arms in what is unmistakably an offer to _lift_ Quinn, presumably straight back up the way Benny had come down.

No. Absolutely not. Unlike _some_ people, Quinn emphatically does not have the ability to fly, and he's not willing to trust Benny's ability to _carry_ someone at least one and a half times his body weight without dropping them.

Quinn grabs Benny by the shoulder and drags him to the _door._

"Oh, you want to take the stairs?" Benny asks. "That's cool, too. Just let me grab the keys--uh, I don't think I actually brought them down..."

It's a while before they finally get inside.

* * *

64.

In keeping with Quinn's typical luck these days, there are technical issues.

"I'm so sorry about this, Quinn, seriously, this doesn't usually happen," Benny says as he thumps on the computer tower. "The connection's just really dodgy, and I just gotta--no, open _video conference,_ not rodeo ball dance, why do we even have that?"

Somehow, Quinn thinks he should have expected this. Benny still uses a flip phone, after all. His ability to work with technology probably isn't all that refined.

Quinn sits on the carpet while Benny yells at the computer some more. He leans against the coffee table and takes a deep breath.

It's a pretty comfortable apartment. Small and a little creaky, but warm and cozy with charming if mismatched furniture. It's pretty obvious that Benny doesn't actually live here, because there aren't really any personal effects anywhere, no photos, no posters, no books, no real indication that the apartment is being lived in.

Also, Quinn has been to Benny's apartment before, which is not in Bricksburg. So there's that, too.

Benny doesn't say so explicitly, but this must be some kind of Master Builder safe house, just for whenever they need to camp out close to the city or recover or anything like that. Benny briefly mentions that the apartment is shielded from wireless communications to shake trackers, in the sort of tone that implies they use it rather frequently. Electromagnetic shielding has the unfortunate side effect of blocking cellular reception, which Quinn isn't exactly comfortable with, but it's not like he has a choice.

Besides that, there's a decent amount of supplies around the apartment. While Benny works on getting the video call working, Quinn takes the chance to look around, and there's nonperishables in the pantry, blankets and a few changes of clothes in the one bedroom, and basic toiletries in the bathroom. Not to mention the computer that looks like multiple people collaborated to assemble it, but they all hated each other and made the most garish design choices possible specifically to spite each other.

Which is, of course, none of Quinn's business. He already knows that Master Builders are about as good at working together as he is at speaking. He just wants to see his parents.

Benny makes a frustrated sound and rubs his eyes. "This new stuff sucks, man," he says. "Sorry I'm having so much trouble, honestly. I'm just not great at all this connection doohickey stuff."

Quinn shrugs. He can wait.

There's another few minutes filled with Benny's clicking, then, a long sigh. Benny flops down on the floor, looks up at Quinn, and says, "You, um, I was really surprised. When they called me. Your folks. They said you gave them my number, and I'm pretty sure I never gave you my number, but, uh..." He shrugs. "I guess I didn't expect that? I mean, your folks are great, they're really nice, and I didn't think they would be, no offense or anything. But like, I...didn't expect you to trust us? With that? Especially after that thing that happened."

Is that what they're calling it now?

"The other Master Builders weren't really, um, down with helping your parents, y'know? Because they were related to you, and you, well, you shot a bunch of them. There was going to be a big fight about it, but then my friend, her name's Unikitty, she said that it was her place, and if she said they could stay, they could stay. She got a little scary about it, and I don't think anybody wanted to argue with her after that."

Quinn exhales and makes a mental note to thank Princess Unikitty, if and when they meet in this timeline. If she hadn't stepped in, he's not sure what would have happened to his parents. Maybe Bad Cop's fears would have been more correct than he thought. While he's sure that whatever the Master Builders had in store wouldn't be as bad as what Business could do, it's still not a fate he wants to condemn his parents to.

He's already killed them once. That was enough.

"I heard you were gone for the last couple of weeks," Benny says. "I was out at the station for a lot of that, but um, nobody knew where you were. And I guess I'm just trying to say that that's, well, really suspicious." He shoots a look at Quinn, like he expects a response, any response. When he doesn't get one, he just sighs and says, "Wyldstyle wanted to talk to you. She mentioned it once or twice when she was looking for you."

Quinn doesn't exactly believe that. Lucy hadn't been particularly chatty when she'd broken in that morning.

"You've been watching out, right?" Benny asks. "The patrols and all. I heard they were looking for you, or 'a black-haired man wearing a mask', which I'm pretty sure is you."

Quinn shrugs.

Benny stares at him for a few awkward seconds, then sits back up to look at the computer again. "I guess the point I'm trying to make is that there's a lot of big questions with you, and I don't know what your deal is, but, um. For the record, I wanna believe you're doing the right thing." He shifts a bit uncomfortably, then continues, "I mean, you saved my life even though you didn't have to, and I know Wyldstyle doesn't really talk about it, but she liked hanging out and talking to you. And you helped us keep from getting caught by Bad Cop with all those notes and stuff. Which you didn't have to do. I know a lot of people don't, but I think you're a good guy."

He taps on the keyboard a bit. "Yeah, that's, um. All I wanted to say."

* * *

65.

Eventually, about two hours, an incredibly large amount of shouting at the computer, and a frozen dinner later, Benny manages to get the video call working.

Quinn leans over Benny's shoulder as Benny squints at the screen. "Hello?" he asks. "Anybody there?"

There's a short pause, then a very large, very pink fuzzy face swims into view. "Benny?" Princess Unikitty's distinctly squeaky voice asks. "Benny, is that you?"

"Yeah, it's me!" Benny says. "You can hear me?"

"Sure can! Just give me a sec--" Princess Unikitty adjusts the camera and steps away from it. She looks exactly the same as Quinn remembers her, with bright pink fur and enormous blue eyes. Things must be going well in Cloud Cuckooland. "There we go! Oh, hey, there you are! And you've got a friend? Hello! I haven't seen you before!"

Quinn waves back politely.

"Oh, uh," Benny says, "Unikitty, this is Quinn. You've heard about him, right? We, um, wanted to talk to Quinn's parents, if that's cool?"

"Of course!" Unikitty says. She stretches, then says, "We didn't know you'd be calling today, but I'll go get them, okay? Just sit tight for a little bit, and they'll be right over!"

She dashes out of frame of view, and Quinn glances at Benny. He was under the impression that this was supposed to be a planned call. 

Soon enough, Quinn hears Ma's voice on the other side saying, "It's over here, right? Oh!" She walks into frame and looks at the screen. "Ciaran! It _is_ you, we've been so worried!"

Quinn winces. Benny and Unikitty are still in earshot, and he's never liked people knowing his name.

Pa walks in next to her. "Son! How are you doing?"

Quinn leans forward over Benny's shoulder to type into the chat window, //I'm good. How are you?//

"We're just fine," Ma says. "The trip here was a bit rocky, but your friend Benny and Unikitty and the others are just a delight. We've been helping out around town, doing this and that. I'm not sure if we're allowed to talk about it."

Pa chuckles and pulls Ma into a half hug. "Don't worry about us, son. We miss being back in the countryside, but we have everything taken care of here. We'll be fine until you've got your things in order."

Quinn nods, then types, //I'm glad. It shouldn't be more than a week or two.//

Benny shoots him a concerned look, but doesn't say anything.

//Rowan was worried about you, but I let him know you're fine.//

Ma blinks, then glances at Benny. "Rowan?" she asks. "In--in the city, you mean? How is he?"

Quinn's hands hover over the keyboard for just a second. He _hadn't_ told them about Bad Cop's death. No wonder they're confused. //Yeah, in the city.//

//He's busy with work,// Quinn continues. //We haven't really talked much recently. He's upset with me.//

"Oh, dear, I'm sorry," Ma says. "Did you tell him everything?"

//I had to.//

Ma reads that a couple of times, then says, "You know he doesn't usually stay angry for long. I hope you'll be able to work something out soon."

Quinn grimaces. Considering everything that's happened, he's less than confident. It's probably good that Ma and Pa can't see his entire face. //I hope so, too.//

"Well, we're always happy to see you, son," Pa says. "You ought to call us more often, now, you know we don't spend enough time together these days."

//Once everything is over.//

Pa smiles. "Yes, when everything is over."

* * *

They talk for a little longer, but there's not much to say on either side, especially when there are people watching. The important thing is that Ma and Pa are well and safe.

Benny ends the call, then shuts the computer off. It's nearly midnight, and the patrols are out again. Benny suggests that Quinn stays the night.

Quinn doesn't think about it long. He can barely breathe in the bakery, it's late, and he's tired. With only Benny here, this apartment is as safe as any.

He lays out a few blankets and sleeps.

* * *

???.

_Slam._

_His back crashes against the wall and there's someone pinning him there, snarling in his face._

_"Trying to run again, are you?" a voice jeers. "Well tough luck, Ciaran, you're not getting away this time."_

_He spits. "My name's_ Rowan. _Get off of me."_

 _Laughs. Pressure comes down harder against his chest. "Oh, just because you_ asked."

_He struggles, but to no avail. His attacker's bigger, stronger. There's nothing he can--_

switch me in, rowan

_No, I'm fine, he's--_

_Crack._

rowan!

_There's blood in his mouth and pain blooming across his cheek. "You like that?" the voice comes again. "Next time you'll listen to me when I'm talking!"_

_Crash. There's a boot crashing into his side, and he tumbles to the ground. His things, his glasses, they're scattered across the linoleum, and he doubles over, trying to protect himself, but he's small, he's so_ weak.

_"Not so smart now, are you, freak?" he hears. He looks up and sees a flash of silver._

_A knife?_

switch with me _now_

_No, I can't--_

_He's grabbed by the collar and_

_Screaming._

* * *

rowan.

rowan?

_What?_

what's going on? you haven't been talking.

_You know what's going on._

i don't. what is it?

 _You_ know! _You stabbed that kid, Ciaran! He had to get two surgeries because you got him through the stomach!_

he was hurting you.

_That's not the point. You...you stabbed him._

he had a knife, rowan. i had a pencil. what was i supposed to do?

 _I told you to let me handle it, but you--you took over, you're not supposed to_ do _that!_

you froze up! i did what i had to!

 _You could have killed_ him, Ciaran!

so what?

_What? Ciaran, you--_

so what if it killed him? he was trying to kill _us,_ rowan.

_You don't mean that. You wouldn't kill someone._

if it would keep you safe. i'd do it again.

rowan?

rowan, please

_Stop. Just, stop._

rowan, i

_Just...go. Go away, Ciaran. I can't talk about this anymore._

please, i'm your brother, i

_No. You're not. You're just a murderer! Go, and don't come back. I don't want to talk to you ever again._

i

i'm sorry.

* * *

_Ice._

_It's cold, it's colder than freezing, and there's--_

_water_

_His eyes snap open, and at once, he's six, he's sixteen, he's forty-four and he's drowning, there's freezing water in his lungs and he can't breathe._

_It's so cold._

_He opens his mouth and the last of his air floats away in a pale bubble as water rushes in, icy and tasting of death. He can't move--water crushes in on him, his clothes are soaked, dragging him down, and he's numb, can't even feel the tips of his fingers._

_His chest burns and he gasps for air that simply doesn't_ exist, _and spasms wrack his body as he tries to expel water from his mouth and throat, but there's nowhere for it to go._

_He stops struggling. Maybe he gives up, or maybe he simply can't anymore. Darkness closes in, and--_

_Where am I?_

_The thought echoes._

_Where?_

_Where?_

_Where?_

_He opens his eyes again. Cold bleeds into his awareness with sharp clarity._

that's not my voice.

* * *

???.

_At once, the world flashes into stark relief. Freezing cold water stands motionless around him, illuminated by clear planes of blue light filtering through the thin ice above._

_He--Quinn, Ciaran, Good Cop--he remembers now. This is the lake. He drowned in it when he was young, slipped and fell through the thin ice. It was so long ago that Bad Cop hadn't even really existed then, couldn't remember this. Bad Cop never found out about it._

_He clenches his fists. The cold bites into his skin, but it's familiar in a way he can't describe._

_Like he's been here for a long time._

_He doesn't breathe. There's water pressure holding his lungs shut, and he can't open them, but he--_

_doesn't need to._

_It's disquieting, not having to breathe. The fact that he doesn't even try only makes it more unsettling._

_Where is it?_

_Where?_

_Where?_

_Where?_

_Words drift faintly through the water, and they're not his voice. Not his, not Bad Cop's, and it has no place being here._

_He moves through the water, up towards the surface, towards the sound, and the water parts ahead of him, splitting as he passes into planes of silvered glass. Out of the corners of his eyes, he can see shards of himself at different ages, different places, different times, and old memories whisper through the water._

_He's not dreaming. There's an electric feeling in his skin that's too vivid for simple nightmares, too strong for another one of the Piece's visions. He may not be awake, but he'd be an idiot to think this wasn't real._

_Over here._

_Here._

_Here._

_Here._

_And then, everything_ moves.

_Water rushes past him, dragging him along into a blinding flash of--_

_\--power in his hands, pulsing down into the wood, splitting along white-blue lines that burn into his vision--_

_"--cooking this fun? I've always wanted to cook big meals but--"_

get out of my head.

_\--a cradle of red stones, and there's the Piece of Resistance. He reaches--_

_\--fire, burning smoke. It's everywhere, he can't breathe--_

get out of my head!

_"--not my brother, and you never--"_

_Quinn bears down with his will and the memory shatters into blackness. He can feel it now, whatever it is that's invaded him, trying to drag memories out of him, and he reaches out and_ grabs _them._

_Stop, please!_

_Please!_

_Please!_

_Please!_

_It would be easy to destroy them. Bury them deep in his mind, deep in the lake where they'd be crushed under the pressure, where they'd never find their way out. Right now, he's sorely tempted._

_"Quinn, please."_

_Quinn opens his eyes. He's above water, standing on the ice. In his hands, he's grasping--_

"Lucy," _he growls, his voice low and hoarse. His fingers are tight around her throat, tight enough that she can't breathe. He doesn't let her go. It's not as if she needs to, here in his mind._ "Why are you in my head?"

_"You--you weren't supposed to find out--"_

"You were going to rifle through all my memories at your leisure? See what you could find?" _Quinn asks._ "Was that your plan?"

_"No, no, I just. I found your radio, in the bakery. I needed to find out what you were doing--"_

_The ice cracks beneath Quinn's feet and he yanks her closer. "You_ broke into the bakery while I was gone. And that wasn't enough? You decided to break into my _head,_ too?"

_"You wouldn't tell me anything--"_

"I didn't tell you for a _reason."_

_Lucy's eyes narrow, despite the circumstances, and she says, "But you--the Piece of Resistance. I saw it, you found it, you know where it is. You--you picked it up, didn't you?"_

_Quinn doesn't answer._

_"But that would mean--but you_ can't _be the Special, that's impossible! You're--you're not even a Master Builder! You can't even take apart two bricks without turning them into dust!"_

_There's a crack like a gunshot as the thin ice splits around them._

"Master Builders," _Quinn snarls,_ "are not the only people who exist. Did you really think it was _magic powers_ that would end up saving the world?"

"I _was supposed to be the Special!" Lucy fires back, trying to grab at Quinn's arm and throw him off. "Not some, not some_ traitor _like you!"_

 _Fire and smoke, ice and water flash in Quinn's memory, settling in his skin and bones as something he recognizes as pure, unadulterated_ anger.

 _He drags Lucy to her feet, his fingers still firmly clamped around her neck._ "Get out of my head, Lucy. _Now."_

_Lucy bares her teeth. "You can't make me. I'm the Master Builder, not you."_

_Quinn gives her a hard look. If she thinks she has the upper hand over him in his own mind, she's sorely mistaken._

_He digs his fingers into her throat and_ slams _her to the ground._

_Lucy crashes through the thin ice, into the lake, and disintegrates in the black water until there's nothing left but a trail of glass dust._

* * *

68.

Good Cop wakes with a thunderous headache and a deep ache in his bones like he's been broken apart and put back together all wrong.

_"--know what happened. I think he must have done something to her, because I've tried everything. I can't wake her up."_

Who...?

Slowly, he sits up, and vertigo hits him so hard that it takes a long twelve seconds to realize that he's not in his apartment. His breathing stills, and he looks around slowly.

He's in a dimly lit apartment, on the floor, on a couple of folded blankets. The room's not exactly large, nor heavily furnished nor what he would call especially lived-in. How did he get here?

He reaches back in his mind towards B, and--

Vertigo hits again as memory crashes like water through a broken dam. B's dead, Business killed him with that cursed Scepter and--

And?

 _"Please, you have to do something,"_ he hears from further inside the apartment. _"I've tried everything."_

Good Cop takes a slow breath. He's not alone.

 _"She's been unconscious for over an hour?"_ a second voice asks.

Good Cop reaches to pick up the nearest item, what seems to be a sturdy wooden walking stick, only to find that his right arm won't move. He rubs it experimentally but only feels pins and needles, which is less than encouraging. Grimacing, he picks up the stick with his left hand and gets to his feet. His entire body aches as he stands, but it complies eventually, and he looks down the hallway towards the voices. There's a thin sliver of light peeking out from an inside bedroom.

The voices inside keep talking, but Good Cop ignores them for now. This...doesn't feel like a kidnapping, but he's in an apartment he doesn't recognize, and the sooner he's out, the better.

He creeps his way over to the door and tries the doorknob. Locked. He feels for a latch, only to find it needs the key from the inside as well as the outside.

The window? He glances out. He's on the third or fourth floor, no ledge below the window that he can see. He doesn't trust himself to climb that, not with a bad arm.

He checks his pockets, trying to think of a solution. He still has his phone, much to his surprise. He pulls it out to find that someone's changed the lock screen to a cute police badge graphic. His passcode doesn't work, but there's no signal anyways.

So what next? He rubs his temples and tries to think, but his head feels like an overfilled balloon and his hands are so cold--

_\--crashing ice, black water rushing, reaching--_

Good Cop blinks. What was that?

He grips the walking stick tightly and tries to shake the image out of his mind, but--

_\--pressure, he opens his mouth to scream, but water floods in and--_

His head pounds, and he's finding it hard to breathe. He's forgetting something, he knows he is, but _what?_

He reaches out to brace himself against the wall, and there's a flash of light in his eyes as wireframe lines rush across his vision.

He recoils, only to trip over his own feet and crash to the ground. The lines don't fade, not when he tries to look away, not when he closes his eyes. They line the walls and floors and objects, tracing their outlines and parts and caging him in with burning white.

Good Cop tries to take a deep breath, tries to slow his racing heartbeat, but he can't seem to make his lungs work, can't seem to calm himself down.

What's going on? What's happening--

There's footsteps, and a click. The lights turn on.

"Quinn?" he hears a voice say. "You're...How are you awake?"

Who the heck is Quinn? Good Cop squints towards the hallway and sees Benny, dressed in spaceship pajamas and looking somewhere halfway to panicked.

"Benny, what's going on?" Good Cop asks, except he doesn't, because his voice doesn't work. 

"Quinn," Benny says as he steps closer cautiously. "Quinn, are you okay? It's me, it's Benny."

"Who's Quinn? I'm Good Cop," he tries to say, except--

_\--not a cop, and not really good, either--_

"You, you might be a little confused right now," Benny says. "But you, uh, something happened, and maybe you had a really, really weird dream but everything's gonna be okay, I promise."

_\--not a dream, and he'd be an idiot to think it was--_

Good Cop brandishes the walking stick. Benny stops.

"Why are you lying to me?" Good Cop demands in a voice Benny can't hear, his knuckles white around the cane's grip. "I'm Good Cop. You know who I am!"

Benny holds his hands up. "Quinn, I'm sorry, but I don't understand what you're trying to say, man. Just...try to calm down, it's okay--"

"Wyldstyle is awake," interrupts a voice from the hallway. A vaguely familiar old hippy whose name Good Cop can't seem to remember walks out beside Benny. "And it sounds like Quinn is, as well. Wonderful."

"Wyldstyle?" Benny asks.

There's some movement, and Good Cop sees something shift behind the hippy.

"I'm fine," he hears a girl-- _Wyldstyle_ \--say, in a voice that does _not_ sound fine. "Let go of me, I can stand on my own--"

Then Good Cop sees her.

_\--cracking ice, sinking down, reaching for help but he doesn't help, not after--_

_\--get out of my head!--_

_\--silent screams as she breaks apart into shards of glass--_

Memory floods back, planes of white frost and black water, old voices drifting through silvered glass, splitting ice and trapped breath--

Good Cop-- _Quinn_ \--snarls.

Lucy went _into his mind,_ tried to take information she had _no right_ to, ripped it out of him like it was hers to take. She thought she could go wherever she liked and do whatever she wanted and that he'd just _let_ her?

Not likely.

He steps forwards. He feels like there's ice in his bones, overflowing from the frozen black lake that had drowned him so many years ago, cold anger hooked so deep into his flesh that he couldn't dislodge it without ripping himself apart first.

"Quinn? Quinn, please--" Benny says, moving to intercept him.

Quinn shoves Benny out of the way and takes two swift steps to grab Lucy by the collar. He slams her against the wall so hard that he can feel it rattle on impact.

"Quinn--" Lucy chokes out, and Quinn notes with savage satisfaction that she's not nearly so confident now that she's not trespassing in his mind. She struggles, trying to throw him off, but he has better leverage and no intention to let go.

He raises his cane, and--

"No!" Benny shouts, tackling Quinn to the ground. They hit the floor with a resounding crash.

Quinn jabs Benny in the stomach and throws him off. Stay out of this, he can't say as he gets back to his feet. This is between him and Lucy.

He steps closer, and Lucy reaches back to the wall. Power surges and green light flashes beneath her fingertips--

The drywall twists and disintegrates at her touch.

Lucy's eyes widen. "What--"

Quinn swings at her with the cane, and she's only barely able to get her arms up in time to block it. He pulls back to strike a second time at her knees, and--

Benny grabs Quinn's shirt and pulls him into as close to a headlock as he can manage. "Stop, Quinn! It's Wyldstyle! She's okay, she's a friend!"

Quinn elbows Benny in the stomach, but Benny doesn't let go.

"Quinn, please!" Benny shouts as he struggles to keep Quinn restrained. "You have to calm down, I let her in and--"

Quinn feels something in the back of his mind like cracking ice.

_\--where is it?--_

_\--over here--_

Lucy wasn't the only one.

He grabs the collar of Benny's shirt, then drops to his knees, throwing Benny over his shoulders and into the opposite wall. There's a crash and Benny scrambles to his feet, but Quinn turns on him and jabs him in the throat with his walking stick, pinning him to the ground.

Benny was in on it. He had to have been, the whole time. He's the one who lured him out here, ensured that Quinn would stay the night. And he was right there with Lucy, breaking into his mind and browsing through personal memories like he was some kind of store to window shop in.

He'd _trusted_ Benny, never thought he'd turn him over, not trap him like this. Not to use something as dirty as luring him out with the promise of his _parents._ He trusted a Benny from a different time and place, but that Benny isn't this one, and that was his mistake.

He won't make it again.

He drops his walking stick and punches Benny in the face. The shock goes straight to his bones, vibrates up his arm, aches in his knuckles, but he hits him, a second and third time until there's blood in Benny's voice as he begs Quinn to stop, please, stop.

Quinn picks his walking stick back up and pulls back for a fourth hit when Vitruvius catches his wrist in an iron grip. "I think that's enough, sonny," he says softly. "You should leave."

Quinn tries to pull away, but Vitruvius's grip holds fast, and the man drags him to his feet and towards the door. Quinn looks back at Benny, clutching his bloody face, at Lucy, staring at her hands in the middle of a ring of broken plaster and twisted wood.

He looks at them and thinks, good.

Vitruvius unlatches the door, and Lucy looks up to meet Quinn's gaze. _"What did you do to me?"_ she screeches.

Vitruvius opens the door and tosses Quinn out onto the landing.

Lucy steps towards the door and screams, _"No, get back here! I saw it, the world's going to end and it's your fault! This is all your fault! If you had just stopped, then none of this--"_

The door closes, and Quinn doesn't hear the rest of it. It's not like he cares to anyways.

He's done with these people.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath, and the beginning of the end.

69.

It's not until he leaves the building and finds himself face to face with cold rain that he realizes he doesn't have his coat, shoes, or glasses.

He's still seeing white lines, lighting the world up as a wireframe structure that's burned in the back of his eyes. There's a vibration trapped in his skin, unhindered by the numbing cold, and he wants it to all _stop._

He hugs himself as tightly as he can with only one arm and starts down the street at a brisk walk. He can't stick around here, not unless he wants to catch pneumonia.

He pads along the street, the concrete rough and cold underneath his bare feet. He aches. His bones and joints ache with cold, and he feels brittle, cracked, like a shattered vase that's been glued back together, but only just.

There's a fog in his mind that he can't clear, full of memories he doesn't want to think about, thoughts he can't bear to remember. He remembers drowning in the lake, he remembers days and nights with Rowan, talking and fighting over so many things.

He remembers being sixteen and nearly killing another student in self-defense. Rowan decided he was better off alone than with a murderer of a brother, and Quinn, well. He locked himself away, deep in his frozen lake where even Rowan's voice couldn't reach him.

He was like that for weeks, silent in the water.

He remembers sitting on the banks of that lake years later, the real one less than a half a mile away from their house, watching it ice over, and wondering if some part of him was still down there, silently screaming for help with lungs full of water.

He came back eventually, of course, but he can't remember how or why. Neither he nor Bad Cop ever talked about the incident, and by the time Quinn thought to ask, well...

It's not like Bad Cop was around to answer anymore.

He continues walking through blurry, darkened streets lined by blue-white threads that dance in his vision, and tries not to think too hard about Lucy, or what she did, or what she saw, or what she knows. He feels somewhere between here and there, not entirely in his skin or in his own mind and he tries not to wonder if it's some kind of side effect from whatever happened when she ripped into his mind.

He tries.

He tries so hard that he barely hears the sound of footsteps in time to turn and--

There's a flash of red, and pain shoots across his side as he collapses to the ground.

"You are in violation of curfew," a robot intones as it steps closer to him, its blaster smoking. "You will be escorted to the nearest station for questioning."

Quinn looks up, and has to flinch away from the light in his eyes. White lines trace across each component, each joint and wire, so many intricate pieces and weaknesses that it's _blinding._

The robot grabs Quinn roughly by the arm, and he reacts. He twists away, and power surges to his hands, unbidden, flashing green beneath his fingers. The robot can barely react before its limbs are ripped apart like foil. It falls to the ground, a pile of so much scrap metal.

Quinn looks at the wreckage of twisted metal and shattered electronics, and he feels his stomach lurching, his heart pounding, his skin vibrating with electric energy. All at once, everything seems too sharp, too vivid, too loud, and he has to get somewhere, anywhere, now.

He runs.

He runs and runs and doesn't look back.

* * *

70.

The first thing Quinn does when he returns to his loft is lock the trapdoor and put a heavy crate on top of it.

He pulls his shirt off to check the damage. There's a bright red burn from where he was shot by the blaster, and a splotchy bruise the size of a dinner plate across his side that's painful to touch, but no bleeding. The blaster must have been on the lowest setting, which is atypical.

Business must really want to take him in alive.

His hands are shaking. His right arm is still mostly unresponsive and numb, and he can barely get himself together enough to use his left, not when he keeps seeing green sparks out of the corners of his eyes.

He hadn't meant to destroy that robot. To force it to let go, perhaps, but he didn't mean to rip it limb from limb, to crumple it like some kind of gum wrapper and leave it there like trash. He didn't even have time to think, and--

Quinn takes a deep breath. Counts to ten. Lets it out.

He forces himself to his feet. The adrenaline from running has worn off, leaving him feeling shaky and sick. The blaster shot hurts when he moves, but he can't just stay like this. The only thing he can do is clean himself up and figure out what to do next.

He takes a shower. The water's cold and it pounds down on his skin like heavy rainfall. He washes his dirty feet and cleans Benny's blood off of his bruised knuckles. He scrubs over the tender flesh across his side and stomach until he feels raw, but no matter what he tries, he can't feel--right.

He shuts off the water and just listens to it drip. He's cold, he's shivering, but he just stands there, braced against the tile wall, listening to his ragged breath and the cold water dripping off of the faucet and his hair and face.

He doesn't want to think right now. Not about Lucy and Benny, not about what they did, not about what he has to do next. So he stands, and breathes, and feels--nothing.

He doesn't know when he finally pulls himself together, but by the time he does, his hair has stopped dripping and his hands are stiff with cold. He dries himself off, bandages his wounds, and puts on some clothes.

The Piece of Resistance looms in the back of his thoughts like foul miasma. He picked it up, and he has to take it to Octan, take it to the Kragle and stop Business. He shouldered that responsibility, and there's no backing out now. He's done enough harm to this world by dropping into this timeline--he can't give up and sign its execution, too.

He takes a long, drawn-out breath, and looks at his hands, shaking and covered with burn scars. What is he supposed to do? 

His arm's just about useless, he has no weapons, he's been shot in the side and everything hurts. He can't even control his horrible, corrupt Master Building ability, can't even keep himself together long enough to think of a plan. Forget the world, how is he supposed to save _anything?_

He needs...he needs...

He needs help.

He needs Bad Cop.

But Bad Cop's dead, has been for two and a half years, with nothing left except for a gouged-out expanse in his mind and a cold nothingness where there used to be warmth except--not, he's _not_ dead, not for another five months, but maybe not even that long if Quinn can't _get himself together._ He's there, he's _out there,_ and Quinn just...needs him.

He fumbles with his numb fingers to take out his phone and stares at it. Bad Cop. It would be so easy, so easy to reach out, talk, say the things he has to.

He texts Bad Cop.

<< B, it's me

<< B, are you there?

<< talk to me, please

<< please

There's a long, long pause with no response, and Quinn has to bite his lip just to keep himself grounded, keep himself together.

The response comes almost twenty minutes later.

_> > Don't text me._

Quinn's heart nearly stops.

<< B, no

<< I just want to talk

<< I swear

_> > I don't want to talk to you._

_Crack._

There's something in the back of Quinn's mind that feels like shattering ice and unending cold, and he barely notices as his phone slips out of his numb fingers to the ground with a clatter.

He can't--he can't breathe, he can't see straight, he--

_\--crying out for help but there's no one to grab him, nothing but water and weight dragging him down, down, down--_

And Bad Cop's _gone,_ he's never coming back, he's alone and he'll always be that way--

_\--carried away by darkness with lungs full of water and--_

Quinn cries, and cries, and cries.

* * *

71.

He wakes from dreamless sleep with sore eyes and a splitting headache like he's been carved out and scooped clean.

A quick check on his phone tells him first that there are no messages, and second that it is almost four in the afternoon. The crate he'd put over the trapdoor is still there, untouched, which at least means nobody tried getting into the loft to see him.

He washes his face. He has some stubble, but not enough to care, and his eyes are puffy and red with deep dark circles under them like he hasn't gotten a good night's sleep for days.

He hasn't.

He feels awful. His head hurts. His eyes hurt. His side hurts. His knuckles hurt. He can barely string more than two thoughts together at once, can barely remember what happened last night, though from what little he can, it's probably best that he doesn't try.

It's not like he would. He's too tired.

His loft is starting to smell like smoke again, though it's hard to tell with his stuffed-up nose. He must have cried for a long time, if he's still like this now. It's not really that important. He's not sure what is, anymore.

He goes back out of the bathroom and lies down again. He pulls the blanket over his head. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what he _can_ do.

He goes back to sleep.

* * *

72.

The next time Quinn wakes up, it's to the sound of his text tone going off. He fumbles to pick up his phone and check who in the world could be texting him at one in the morning.

It's Bad Cop.

_> > I need your help._

_> > I'm at the warehouse on Fifth Street._

_> > Come quickly. It's urgent._

Quinn snaps to attention.

<< what?

There's no response.

There's really only one thing he can do.

* * *

Quinn's eyesight is bad, but his sense of direction is as good as ever and he finds the warehouse easily enough without getting caught by patrols. It's barely inside the eastern districts of town, just outside the border of where video surveillance is consistent and not regularly dismantled by resistance members.

It's an old building, with peeling paint and rusted walls, and he can vaguely recall that it used to be a storage space for one of Octan's competitors, years and years ago. It's unused now, though, too far away from the center of the city or anywhere else useful for Business to bother repurposing it.

Quinn goes around to the front entrance and tries the doors. They're unlocked.

He goes in. The warehouse is dark, and almost empty except for a few rotting pallets and some trash. There's a musty smell and a low groaning sound from the ceilings that echoes in the empty space. He glances around and sees lights in the office, so he makes his way over.

He listens at the door for a few moments and hears nothing, then goes in.

Someone grabs him by the wrist and slams him head-first into a desk.

Quinn struggles against his assailant, but he's pinned.

"You really did come. I wasn't sure that would work."

Quinn freezes. That's _his_ voice.

"Last time we talked, you weren't very cooperative. I don't really blame you, because obviously I would have done the same thing, but we've come to the point where I need information, and you're the only person who has it," his younger self says calmly. Quinn feels him lean closer, putting more force on his wrists and neck, before pulling his walking stick away and tossing it aside. "I think I have a pretty good idea of what happened, but tell me: How did it feel when you killed Bad Cop?"

Quinn's eyes widen. How dare--

He thrashes to free himself, but his younger self doesn't budge. He's handled people larger and stronger before; a sick man who's almost thirty pounds lighter than him is barely worth noting.

"You don't like that, do you? Imagine how I felt, when I found out Bad Cop was dead," his younger self continues. "If I'm wrong, let me know. I'd love to be wrong about this. Switch him in. Let me see him, and I'll let you go." 

There's nothing Quinn can do but struggle helplessly.

"That's what I thought. Do you want to know how I knew Bad Cop was gone? It's your clothes. Bad Cop would never be able to wear clothes as scratchy as yours, which you would _remember_ if he was still around." Good Cop's voice drops into a darker register. "Why did you come back in time? Are you trying to kill him again? Was the first time not enough?"

Quinn hisses. How dare he. How _dare_ Good Cop even suggest he would hurt Bad Cop, much less _kill_ him.

He tries to twist out of Good Cop's grip and free himself, but Good Cop slams him against the table again, knocking the air out of his lungs. Good Cop bears down on him, pressing hard against the back of his neck.

"Don't argue with me," Good Cop says. "You've already put him in danger, or did you think those little notes you've been dropping your Master Builder friends weren't making any sort of difference? What, did you think they just _decided_ to team up and ambush Bad Cop? You're lucky he went back to get you out of the snow after that. I would have left you. You don't get credit for cleaning up your own mess."

Quinn's breathing stills. That attack, out in the snow, it all feels so long ago now. He knows it didn't happen last time, but he didn't realize--

"Your actions have consequences, Quinn. I know that, so why don't you?" Good Cop hisses. He tightens his grip on Quinn's neck, digging his fingers into tender flesh. "Or maybe you do. Maybe you wanted your Master Builder friends to do the dirty work for you."

Quinn shakes his head in protest, wincing as he feels the bite of Good Cop's fingernails.

"No? Then what are you trying to _do?_ Do you really expect me to believe you're trying to save Bad Cop when _you're_ a Master Builder and you keep trying to help your precious Master Builder friends? You can't save the world, Quinn. You can't save everyone. If you want to stop Business, you have to make sacrifices, and I will _not_ let you hurt Bad Cop. I'll kill you if I have to." Good Cop pauses, and Quinn can just imagine the vicious smile across his face. "Surely, you understand."

Good Cop eases off the pressure and turns Quinn around so they're face-to-face.

"We have about two hours to talk before Bad Cop wakes up. You have one chance to tell me what happens to him, or I'll _make_ you." He gestures to a chair. "Have a seat. Start talking."

Quinn sits. He talks.

* * *

There's not much to say, in the end.

Business wanted Bad Cop to kill their parents. He couldn't, and Business killed him for it. At the end of the day, that's all there is.

Stopping it, however, is far less simple.

"The...Kragle," Good Cop says, his voice flat. "What is it?"

 _{It's Business's ultimate weapon. It freezes things so they can't move or be taken apart,}_ Quinn replies. _{Including people. He wanted to use it on the entire world.}_

There's no visible reaction on his younger self's face, but Quinn doesn't doubt he finds the idea just as abhorrent as he did. "The Piece of Resistance can stop it? How?"

_{I don't know. I wasn't there for that part.}_

Good Cop frowns. "Hm. And where is the Piece of Resistance now?"

Quinn purses his lips. _{I can't tell you that.}_

There's a long pause. "Then what's your plan, Quinn? How are you going to stop Business?"

_{I don't know.}_

Good Cop's gaze moves from Quinn's hands to his face, and slowly, he stands and steps closer. "Quinn," he says softly. "Business is ready to do anything he has to to flush you out. He's got patrols all over the realms. Just this morning, he took your 'nephew' up to Octan, so if you don't want him to get melted down, you need a plan, and fast."

Quinn's mind stutters, stops. Plays that back.

_{He took Emmet?}_

"Emmet Brickowski was taken into custody for questioning this morning for suspected relations to a highly wanted criminal. His apartment was searched and they found evidence that you were living there." Good Cop crosses his arms. "Terribly cold of you, to leave him with your mess."

Quinn clenches his fists, then signs, _{I told him to destroy my things.}_

"Well, he didn't, or he didn't do it well," Good Cop says. "And if Business doesn't find you soon, I'm sure he'll do something terrible to the kid and broadcast it to draw you out. You can let that happen, but maybe you would rather it didn't."

Quinn looks down. He got Emmet into this mess, and he'll...he'll have to do something to save him, too, but he doesn't know how he possibly could.

Good Cop grabs Quinn by the chin and forces him to meet his eyes. "Here's my ultimatum. Come up with a plan within the next two days, and I'll help you get into Octan and keep some of the security off of you. I can keep Bad Cop out of the loop for about six hours, and you'll be free to do whatever you want without his interference. But if you don't think of a plan, I will find you, and I will find where you put the Piece of Resistance, and I will save Bad Cop myself. Unlike you, I do not care what happens to Emmet Brickowski or any of your Master Builder friends. Do you understand?"

Quinn nods stiffly. It's not like he has a choice.

Good Cop lets go. "Good. I'm not letting B die." He steps aside so Quinn can pass. "Text Bad Cop to let me know when you come up with something and wait until I text you back."

Quinn nods again, then leaves.

* * *

Two minutes later, halfway down the block, he realizes he's forgotten his walking stick. It takes him another five minutes to go back and find it, and then he leaves for real.

* * *

73.

He's a block away from the bakery when he hears the low droning sound of Business's Micromanagers, a sound that turns Quinn's blood to ice, even now.

Their black shadows cruise overhead, nearly invisible against the dark sky, and then--

There's a flash, and an explosion. Quinn flinches back, grabbing his ears in pain.

There's more blasts, sending Quinn's ears ringing and deep quaking tremors through the ground until the air tastes thick with dust and ammonia.

When it's all over, Quinn smells it before he sees it.

Smoke.

He opens his eyes and there, peeking through the alleys, is bright red and orange light and--

No. _No._

He runs, tries to run, stumbles his way through to the bakery. It can't be, he couldn't have--

A tower of flames roars before him. Fire climbs into the sky in swirling pillars of yellow and red, and the heat melts all of the remaining snow to nothing. It smells acrid, smells like toxic smoke and burning plastic and wood ash that falls from the sky like black snow.

This is his fault. Business destroyed the bakery because of him, had it firebombed and wiped out just to flush him into the open.

He takes a deep breath that tastes like smoke and he--

His legs give way beneath him and he barely manages to keep from falling over.

The fire burns higher and higher into the sky, destroying anything he had in his loft, everything he had in this world. The heat is blistering, and Quinn can't make himself move closer, or further away. Helplessly, he watches as the building, weakened from explosives, caves in on itself with a thunderous crash.

He feels weak.

Someone grabs at his shoulder but he shakes them off, staggers to his feet, and leaves as fast as he can without even looking at them.

Time's up. Business knows who he is and he's coming. He's got Emmet, he's destroyed Quinn's home, and now all he has to do is wait. There's nowhere for Quinn to hide, and they both know it.

This is how it all ends.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The clock is ticking.

74.

Quinn holes himself up in one of the many abandoned apartment complexes that he scoped out back when this whole mess started. He's shaking, and it's not because of the cold.

His mouth still tastes like ash and smoke and he clutches his walking stick close to his chest like it's the only thing tethering him to earth. He was _so close._ If he'd been just a couple minutes faster, if he hadn't forgotten his walking stick, he would have been in the bakery when the bombs hit. He would be dead, just like that.

So what happens now?

He has two days to come up with a plan, but really, he doesn't even have that. By that time, he'll be as good as dead, and so will Emmet and everyone else.

He has to get the Piece of Resistance and take it to Octan, find the Kragle, save Emmet, and stop Business. Put that way, it sounds so simple, but any way he looks at it, he can't help but think it's impossible.

His younger self can get him into the building, maybe even help him get to the Kragle, but what then?

Quinn's just one person, a person who shouldn't even exist in this time or place. A person with half of his mind gouged out, a person without a voice or a healthy body or any sort of convenient magic powers. A coward, a dirty traitor, a liar.

Emmet was special, extraordinary even, not because of any sort of Master Building power or a fake prophecy or some mystical deep knowledge, but because he was _good._ He may have been scared, but he did what he had to do, and he succeeded because he saw the best in everyone and thought anyone could be and deserved to be saved, and...

...Quinn can't do that.

Quinn isn't a hero. Business took that away from him long before he murdered Bad Cop. He can handle lives, but he only knows how to end them, not save them. He's got the toxic seed of Master Building power buried in his soul, but he can only use it to rip buildings from their foundations, break and twist things into horrible, unrecognizable shapes. He has the charm and the knowledge to act good, but on the inside, he's cold and selfish, and he knows he really doesn't care about anything but Bad Cop's survival.

In the end, all the knowledge and tools and plans won't be enough to save the world.

In the end, the problem with the plan is him.

* * *

75.

It's around sunrise when Quinn hears footsteps in the hallway. He stops dead. This is an abandoned building, not even furnished or with working heat or electricity. There's no reason for anyone to come here.

 _"Do you really think he'd be in a dump like this?"_ he hears someone--a _human_ someone--say from a few rooms over.

 _"Not really, but you heard what they said. He could be anywhere, so we've got to search everywhere,"_ a second voice replies.

_"Fine, we'll take a quick look and check the next place, then. The sooner we get the Piece of Resistance, the better."_

Quinn's heart leaps into his throat. They're looking for him. Lucy must have told the others that he'd found the Piece of Resistance and they were coming to take it from him.

He can't let that happen. He may not know how to save the world, but he _knows_ that the Master Builders can't do it. They're too self-involved, too ready to put themselves on pedestals, too ready to take the Piece of Resistance for the glory without realizing how horrible it all is. He knows from experience that they can't work together to come up with a plan literally to save their lives, and handing the Piece off to them would be just as good as handing it directly to Business.

The steps come closer to the room he's in, and he hears the doorknob rattle.

 _"This one's locked!"_ he hears from the other side of the door.

Quinn breathes in sharply. There's no furniture, nothing to hide under, and the windows are boarded so he can't even try escaping that way.

He makes a beeline into one of the bedrooms and shuts himself into one of the closets, ducking under a built-in shelf. He starts praying.

The front door opens, and two sets of footsteps enter the apartment.

"Looks like somebody's been here," he hears an unfamiliar voice say. "There's tracks in the dust and everything. You think he might be here?"

"I...I don't know."

Quinn bites his tongue. That's Lucy's voice. She doesn't sound great, with her voice low and not nearly as confident as it usually is.

The footsteps come closer to the bedroom.

"God, this place sucks," the unknown person says amidst rustling sounds. "If I was this guy, I would have built something reasonable. Like a _chair,_ at least. It's not like these counters are doing much."

"He's not a Master Builder," Lucy says.

"Yeah, okay. I was _just saying._ You don't have to keep getting all touchy about the Master Building thing, geez."

"I wasn't--" Lucy sighs, then says, "I'll check this room. You check the other one, then we can get out of here."

The door to the bedroom creaks open, and footsteps enter.

"I can't believe him," Lucy mutters. "He doesn't have to be such a--" She says a few choice words that Quinn would not personally use, then, "--so hard to leave me _alone_ for once?"

She slides the closet door partway open, and Quinn holds his breath. He's still hidden behind the door, but he can just see her from under the shelf, with her hair down and a face like she hasn't slept in over a day--or maybe that's just his bad eyesight and wishful thinking. He'd like to think she's suffering after the other night.

She looks around the closet once back and forth, then shuts the door and walks away. It's not until she leaves the bedroom and locks the door behind her that Quinn can breathe again.

"I didn't find anything," the other Master Builder says. "If he was here, then he's split by now. Let's go."

Lucy makes a sound that is neither enthusiastic nor particularly agreeable, and the two of them leave. Quinn counts to a hundred to make sure they're really gone, then crawls out of the closet and takes a few deep breaths.

The Master Builders are after him. That's...not good. He'd gotten lucky this time--very lucky, but historically, his luck never lasts long.

He needs a plan, and fast.

* * *

76.

Planning goes about as well as expected.

He taps his pencil on his worn-out notepad and tries not to feel the crushing despair creeping up on him.

Getting into the building, that's the easy part. He has the access codes, and his younger self can just escort him in. The Piece of Resistance itself? It's too large to hide. He'll have to take it past Business somehow, or sneak around him to wherever the Kragle is.

There's only so many places the Kragle can be, because Quinn remembers he never saw it before Business revealed it to him, that night Bad Cop died. Maybe Business keeps it in his office or in storage nearby, just so he can admire it and fantasize about his perfect frozen world in between plotting atrocities. It would certainly narrow down the possibilities of where it's hidden, but getting there undetected will be...difficult.

And then there's Emmet. Emmet, who didn't deserve to get dragged into this, and got captured for the trouble. Quinn doesn't know why Emmet didn't destroy his things like he told him to, but there's nothing he can do about it now. He has to do something to help Emmet. What, he's not sure.

Emmet's probably in one of Business's nicer holding cells right now, and Quinn could probably key in the codes to unlock the doors and let Emmet walk free, but it's not like he can expect Emmet to escape on his own without getting caught when he doesn't know Octan's layout and has a history of making incredibly poor decisions. More likely than not, he's going to need an escort if he wants to get more than a step out of his cell without getting immediately tackled by a robot and arrested a second time.

Depending on what happens when Quinn faces Business, and he _will_ face Business, no doubt about that, there might not be time to help Emmet afterwards. And frankly, when the Piece of Resistance and Bad Cop's life are on the line, Emmet is a secondary concern.

One that he doesn't want to have to sacrifice, for sure, but the way things are going, he just might have to.

Quinn puts his pencil down and rubs his temples.

What _will_ he do when he goes head-to-head with Business? It's been over six months since he landed in the past and he still doesn't know. As much as he would like to just kill him and be done with it, Business has an army of robots and all of his unpleasant toys. Quinn has a stick.

Quinn knows he could take Business in a fair fight, but Business is not known for fighting fair and it would be brazenly idiotic to assume he would ever do so.

He's going to have to stack the deck on his side if he wants to have any chance of saving Bad Cop, and therein lies the problem.

He's only one person, and there's only so much he can do. He doesn't have enough hands, enough eyes, enough _resources_ to do everything he has to. He's trying to fill twenty jugs with a pint of water and it's _not going to work._

He twists his fingers through his hair and sighs.

What is he going to do?

* * *

77.

The streets are crawling with robots.

Quinn should have expected it, honestly. After Business took out his home, it's only reasonable to assume that he'd be somewhere out in the open or at least in transit, at least once they investigated the wreckage and failed to find his corpse or the Piece of Resistance.

He mostly makes his way from building to building via rooftop and fire escapes, where the robots aren't skulking around, keeping a lookout for him or any other resistance members who might come out of the woodwork. It does well enough to keep him out of the hands of Business's forces, but not so much with the Master Builders, who like running around the rooftops as much as he does. It's barely eleven in the morning and he's almost been caught three times.

He wishes he had his glasses.

Now without glasses, he's dropped the mask as well, which was too full of soot and ash anyways, and twisted his hair up into what someone might very generously call a bun or more honestly call a complete disaster. It's not much of a disguise, but it will probably buy him a few seconds of confusion if anyone's looking for a man wearing a mask and glasses and a ponytail, which is all he can really hope for.

He climbs over to the next apartment building with a painful wince as he pulls at his burn, then heads down the roof access stairway to another room he can hide out in for a while. He knows it's best to keep moving, but with the blaster shot in his side, he's not willing to move _too_ often, especially when he might need to bolt at a moment's notice.

He finds a suitable apartment and settles in, out of view of any of the windows. The dust's been recently disturbed, so the Master Builders have probably searched the building already, and with luck, they won't double back for another few hours yet.

He considers taking his notebook back out and trying to sort that all out again, but by this time, it feels like he's beating his head against a brick wall. He's either going about it all wrong, or there's nothing he can do, and in either case, he's not going to solve the problem by just trying again right now.

He tries to take a deep breath and breaks out into a coughing fit. Without his mask, the dust has been wreaking havoc on his lungs, and his medication was in the loft when it got bombed; he's not getting it back. It's a few minutes before the fit passes, and he pulls his jacket closer around him.

He closes his eyes. He's aching, and he hasn't slept since his younger self contacted him ten hours ago, and it's not as if he was well rested before then, either. He just needs to doze, just for a little while, and--

_\--blue lights and humming machinery, towering towards the sky, and frozen faces, staring down--_

Quinn's eyes snap open. What _was_ that?

_"--haven't seen this before. It's my greatest creation, the Think Tank, and I think you--"_

Quinn staggers to his feet, tries to shake echoes of Business's voice out of his head, ground himself here and now, and not in these _visions,_ not when everything is so close now.

He makes his way to the door, so he can get out of here, get anywhere away from here when the ground dips beneath his feet and--

 _\--slams him against the back of a metal chair._ "This _was your plan?" Bad Cop roars. "Are you some kind of_ idiot? _How was this supposed--"_

_\--leans in and smiles. "Oh, I've waited so many years for this, Special," Business croons. "I've got some surprises for you--"_

_\--screaming, screaming pain. It hurts, it hurts, make it stop, make it stop_ make it stop--

_\--choking, he can't breathe, can't feel his fingers and he won't make it in time--_

Gasping for breath, Quinn opens his eyes and crashes to the asphalt in a heap and...

Asphalt?

He looks around and he's in a completely new place, nowhere near where he was before, outside on the street. How did he get here? How long was--how long was that vision?

Then there's a voice behind him.

"Quinn?" Benny asks. "Is that you?"

* * *

Quinn turns slowly to face Benny, then pushes himself up to his feet.

Benny's alone, with a bag slung over his shoulder and a space station logo baseball cap over his hair.

"I, um, I heard about what happened at the bakery last night," Benny says. "I'm really sorry, man, but I'm glad you're safe and all that. We've been, um, looking for you everywhere all morning."

Quinn's jaw tightens. He's well aware.

Benny takes a cautious step forwards. Quinn takes a step back. "Look," Benny says, "I'm sorry, we're so sorry about what happened the other night, none of that was supposed to happen like that, and, um..."

Quinn has to take a deep breath to stop himself from hurting Benny again. He's still not sure _what_ happened that night, but he _is_ sure that in Benny's ideal world, he would have woken up the next morning none the wiser after they went traipsing through all of his secrets. He is _entirely_ sure that 'none of that was supposed to happen' does _not_ mean that Benny or Lucy, at any point, ever considered _not_ violating his mental space.

Apologies won't make them unsee however much they saw in there.

"After the, um, thing, Wyldstyle hasn't really been able to use her Master Building powers," Benny continues. "She's pretty--pretty, uh, upset about it. Nobody's really sure how she lost them, but we're pretty sure it's because of something that...happened, y'know?

"She told us that you...you know where the Piece of Resistance is. You do, don't you?" Benny asks. "That's great, y'know? We've been looking for it for years, but you found it and now we can use it to go fight Business and save the world and--"

_"--have a lovely time in the Think Tank with all of your friends--"_

"--help us please, won't you?"

Quinn takes a long breath in, a long breath out.

Benny shifts nervously from one foot to the other. "Quinn?"

Quinn takes two swift steps up to Benny and grabs a fistful of his shirt. He yanks him close and jabs his stick into Benny's throat.

"Quinn--Quinn, no," Benny chokes out. "I just want to talk, please, Quinn--"

The time for talking has long since passed. With a single movement, Quinn knees Benny in the stomach until Benny's coughing and gasping for breath, then hoists him by the collar and slams him against a wall. He's not--

_\--cuffed to a table and the bright lights sting his eyes, he's hurting but he knows it'll get worse--_

no, not now, not--

_\--swirls a bottle of clear fluid and holds it up to the light. There's thin white fumes wafting off of it, and Quinn feels sick with what Business might use that for--_

\--grabs him by the shoulder and tears him off of Benny--

_\--the cuffs are off, but he's bleeding from the wrists and he can't breathe, there's just not enough time to--_

Pain bursts through Quinn's consciousness, shattering the vision as Quinn doubles over, grabbing at his side. There's another crack as something blunt hits Quinn's head and he reels with spots in his vision, just trying to _see--_

There's another blur of motion and Quinn raises his stick to block it. A crack of wood on wood rings out.

"No, stop!" Benny shouts.

Quinn twists and disengages, then strikes blindly with his stick. It hits something hard and there's a grunt of pain, and Quinn pulls back.

He can barely make out three figures through his spinning vision, at least one of which is carrying some kind of weapon. It doesn't take a genius to tell that this fight's going to go south, real fast.

He turns tail and runs.

* * *

78.

Quinn loses the Master Builders quickly. Surprisingly quickly, actually, and he suspects that Benny might have slowed them down or tried to tell them to let him go. He doesn't really care, as long as he gets away.

By the time he stops in an alleyway to catch his breath, his head is throbbing, and his stomach and sides are screaming from bruises and his motion. The ground feels like it's swaying beneath him, but there's not really anything he can do when--

_\--in his eyes. He flinches away from the bright light--_

He puts his head in his hands and sucks in a long breath through his teeth.

He doesn't want to see this. He doesn't want to see how his plan fails and he gets caught and put to Business's tender mercies. He doesn't want to know how hopeless everything is before he's even tried.

 _"--don't tell me, then I'll_ make _you tell me!" Business roars. He raises a baton and--_

what are you trying to show me?

 _\--burning, all down his face, all down his arm, and it hurts, it_ hurts--

why do i have to see this?

_\--Bad Cop, standing in the doorway, fury written on his face. "You," he growls--_

Quinn clenches his fists so tightly that his nails bite into his palms and he blinks tears from his eyes, trying to shake the images off.

why now?

* * *

He hides in an abandoned old shop for a while, just trying to keep himself together.

He's tired and hungry and every sound puts him on edge, and it feels like he can't close his eyes without seeing Business's face, feeling knives cutting into his flesh, hearing Bad Cop's voice, yelling at him in words he can't even understand.

It's not cohesive, his visions. They come in flashes, single images, short snippets, and he doesn't want to think about what it could all mean, because the only thing it _can_ mean is failure.

The future's not set in stone, he wants to believe that, but everything else he's seen has come to pass and he has no way to stop what's going to happen next. No matter what plan he comes up with, Business will catch him and everything's lost. No matter what happens, he ends up in that interrogation room, screaming.

But it doesn't have to be that way, a small voice in the back of his mind says. He could run, run and hide like the coward he is, go to another realm and never have to see Business or another Master Builder again. He'd never have to see the Think Tank, never get interrogated or tortured.

It could be so easy. He knows the ways out of the city, he knows how to hide, but--

Bad Cop.

He closes his eyes and remembers the Scepter overhead, the acrid chemical smell, and B's last words.

_(...Sorry, G)_

He doesn't know what Bad Cop would say to him now. All he can see now is Bad Cop in the past, standing across from a table, telling him it's impossible, that he'll get himself killed. All he can think about is Bad Cop in the future, standing in the doorway of that interrogation room with a baton in his hand and anger plain on his face.

Bad Cop. Bad Cop wouldn't turn on him, would he?

Quinn...doesn't know. It hurts that he doesn't know, can't be sure that Bad Cop would be there for him, because there's no reason for him to be.

Bad Cop didn't warn him about the patrols, didn't want to talk to him when he cried and begged and needed him most. Bad Cop found out the truth and told him to leave.

B didn't want a murderer for a brother. Not when they were sixteen, not now.

The only difference is, now Bad Cop can cut him loose, and given the choice, why wouldn't he? It's not as if Quinn's ever done anything for Bad Cop. He's cold, he's cruel, he's vicious. He never protected Bad Cop, never helped him with anything Business did to him, couldn't even save his life in the end.

And despite all that, Bad Cop was there for _him._ Bad Cop protected him through everything, through Business, Bad Cop listened to him, and he was _there,_ right up to that very last _'sorry'._

At the end of it all, that's why he can't run. Bad Cop may have turned his back, but even now, staring failure in the face, Quinn can't. He can't let Bad Cop die.

Not again.

* * *

79.

Quinn doesn't make much headway on planning later, either. No matter how he approaches the problem, it all ends the same way--with him captured and the Piece of Resistance in Business's hands.

He puts his head down to rest, just for a little while, when he's jolted back to awareness by his ringtone.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and looks at the number.

It's Pa's cell phone.

But why would Pa call? They know he can't talk, and there's no way they could have gotten his new phone number, unless--

_Benny._

Quinn feels something tighten around his heart, and he thinks it might be anger. Benny's appeal and apology hadn't worked, so now he's trying to use _Ma and Pa_ to bring him in? Of all the dirty, low tricks he could use--

Quinn finds himself unable to articulate the sheer _audacity_ Benny must have to try and pull that, just days after using that _video call_ to lure him in so they could pry him open for secrets.

He honestly hadn't thought that Benny had it in him to be this wretched, but clearly he was wrong.

Quinn ends the call and doesn't listen to the voice message. He's had enough.

* * *

80.

Night falls.

Quinn is tired and hungry and aching. Benny's Master Builder friends hadn't pulled their punches and that bump on his head was still throbbing. He's a bit dizzy, too, but he can't tell if that's because of the hit or because he'd eaten all of two granola bars all day.

He still doesn't have a plan.

One day out, and he still doesn't have a plan.

What is he going to do?

He peeks out into the street, and when the coast is clear, he goes. He needs somewhere safe to sleep, and something to eat, and the broken-down garage he's been hiding out in has neither of those things.

He doesn't go far, just to another apartment building a few spots down. It's just as dusty as the last. He can't understand why there are so many abandoned buildings out here, except for the obvious answer that people keep getting arrested and brought to Octan to be 'put to sleep', as Business so eloquently puts it. Every year there were more waves of people cleared out, with so many of them in this last one before Taco Tuesday, yet another one of Business's preparations for his perfect frozen world.

What a horrible waste.

He breaks into one of the apartments by sliding his ID card in the door crack to spring the lock open, then closes the door behind him with a soft click.

"It's good manners to knock, young man."

Quinn startles and swings his stick up towards the voice, only for it to be swiftly twisted out of his grip and tossed aside. There's a blur of motion, and suddenly he's pinned to the door by a much larger stick.

"Assaulting others without introducing yourself is rude, as well. Didn't your mother teach you manners?" the voice--Vitruvius's, Quinn recalls--says.

Quinn, for lack of a voice, doesn't answer.

Vitruvius makes a vaguely unhappy sound from the back of his throat, then releases Quinn. "We have been looking for you all day. You have made it very difficult for us. Come over. Let's talk."

Vitruvius goes and sits on the dining room table. Quinn doesn't move.

"You might be wondering why we've been trying so hard to find you," Vitruvius says slowly. He pauses as if waiting for a response, then continues, "It is because you found the Piece of Resistance. You may not know this, but the Piece of Resistance is the key to stopping Business's ultimate weapon, the Kragle.

"Quinn, you are the Special. You may not believe so, but you, as the prophecied Special are the greatest, most interesting, most important person of all times, and you will take the Piece of Resistance to thwart Business and his Kragle once and for all."

 _"--thought you could beat_ me? _You Master Builders are so cute. Look at you now, always failing--"_

Quinn clenches his fists. It's all lies, he can't say. All of your Specials, all of your prophecies, they're all _fake._

"You must help us," Vitruvius says. "You're the last hope of the resistance. Without you and the Piece of Resistance, we cannot win. It's your destiny, Quinn."

Quinn takes a deep breath and suppresses the urge to punch an old man in the face. I've seen the future, he wants to scream. I've seen my destiny and there's nothing there but screaming and pain and _failure._

But Vitruvius is blind while Quinn has no voice, and there's no method of communication between them that Quinn can use to make him _listen._

Quinn knows that he is not the Special, and that he never was or will be, because there is no Special. Just a fake prophecy and a lie that's filled with empty hopes.

He knows there's a future lying in front of him, a future that he catches in flashes and snippets whenever he closes his eyes, too quickly to see. A future with Business, an interrogation chamber, and a satchel full of tools designed for uncooperative prisoners. A future where he's not holding the Piece of Resistance and he can't stop the Kragle.

That's not the future that Vitruvius sees, but it's the one that will come to pass.

Vitruvius offers his hand to Quinn. "The Master Builders are ready to meet you, Special. They're waiting to hear what you have to say."

Quinn sneers and goes to pick up his walking stick. He wouldn't have anything to say to a congregation of Master Builders even if he could talk.

"Wyldstyle is there, too," Vitruvius continues. "Ever since she lost her Master Building abilities after entering your mindscape, she has been a bit, let's say, under the weather."

Quinn grips his stick tightly. He does _not_ want to hear about how _Lucy_ is suffering.

Vitruvius taps his staff. "She has been wanting to speak to you, Quinn. I believe she wishes to apologize."

Stiffly, Quinn turns to face the door and leave.

"You should speak to her. She means well, Quinn."

That's _enough._

Quinn rounds on Vitruvius and disintegrates the table he's sitting on. It cracks and splinters in a flash of green power and Vitruvius stumbles to his feet as the wood breaks beneath him. Quinn grabs him by the collar of his tie-dye t-shirt and slams him as hard as he can against the window.

The blinds rattle and Vitruvius grunts, not out of pain so much as annoyance. "There's no need for this," he says calmly. "I simply believe that it would be beneficial for you to hash out your differences with Wyldstyle. I hoped that you could help her work through what caused the loss of her powers."

 _"She_ trespassed in _my_ mind!" Quinn roars, only for silence to come out. He growls in frustration, then slams Vitruvius against the window a second time. The glass shakes in the frame.

"Wyldstyle truly wishes to apologize," Vitruvius says. "You should, at the very least, hear what she has to say."

Quinn snarls and smashes Vitruvius against the window with all of his strength. There's a loud _snap_ as the glass breaks free, and Vitruvius tumbles backwards out of the frame, down to the ground below.

Quinn doesn't check to see what becomes of him.

 _\--screaming, his throat is hoarse, everything hurts, stop, please,_ stop--

He feels sick.

* * *

???.

_Screaming._

stop

_He's screaming._

stop! make it stop!

_The screaming continues._

* * *

_The light is too bright. It hurts even if he shuts his eyes and he tries to look away, but moving his neck hurts even more. There's cuffs around his wrists, chaining him to the table._

_Shallow cuts and lash marks criss-cross down his arms, blood pools on the ground below. His skin feels like it's burning, all raw to the touch and painful to move._

_It's too warm._

_A hand grabs him roughly by the chin and he winces as the touch stings. It forces him to look up, directly into the light, and he flinches back._

_"Now, now, there's no need for that," Business says, a venomous smile across his face. "I just want to get a good look at my work. There's nothing wrong with that, is there?"_

_Quinn can't answer. Wouldn't even if he could. The time for talking has passed._

_"Oh, that's good," Business says. He's cheerful, and Quinn doesn't think he's ever seen a worse thing in his life. "I'll get you to talk eventually, just you wait. Soon enough..."_

_Business pulls out a set of electrodes, and his smile widens. "Bad Cop is always so_ unimaginative, _you know? You're lucky, Special. You get some quality time with_ me, _instead."_

_He peels the backing off of the electrodes and sticks them to Quinn's arm. "We'll start small," Business says. "And if you ever want to stop, all you have to do is talk."_

* * *

_He's choking._

_His lungs are moving but he still can't breathe. He's dizzy, he feels nauseous, but the cuffs are holding him to the table and he can't escape._

it hurts

_His mouth tastes like metal, and it makes him sick, or maybe that's just everything else._

_Business talks, but all Quinn can hear is noise. What is Business saying anymore? He can't hear the words anymore, but it doesn't matter. Nothing Business has said has mattered before. It will hardly start now._

it hurts so much please

_He looks at the flask of acid, half-empty, lying out on the table, still fuming. That flask is either going to save him or kill him, and it's only a matter of time until he finds out which._

* * *

_Eventually, the pain stops._

_Everything else does, too._

* * *

81.

Quinn opens his eyes slowly.

He sits up.

He breathes. In, out.

He's alive.

But soon, he won't be.

* * *

Quinn stands and walks over to the window. It's dark, past midnight, and cold. The sky is clear, with the quarter moon shining overhead, and there's no sound except for wind against the shutters.

He takes a deep breath, counts to ten, lets it out.

He gets it now. He isn't meant to take the Piece of Resistance and stop the Kragle, after all.

He's meant to die.

The realization settles on him gently, and he takes it in, breath by breath. It feels like clarity.

Of course he can't do everything on his own. It's simply not possible for one person to take the Piece of Resistance, stop the Kragle, stop Business, and save the world. Even Emmet only did so much on his own.

There's no such thing as a Special. There's no reason why _he_ has to take the Piece of Resistance to Octan, and he won't. Whoever saves the world, it won't be him. Can't be him.

He exhales, pulls out his phone, and texts Bad Cop.

He knows what has to happen now.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not a good plan, but it's the only one that will work.

82.

Quinn goes to the abandoned construction site and looks over it, pillars of broken concrete and pits of cracked asphalt and loose gravel. In the moonlight, it looks softer, dreamlike.

Quinn doesn't feel entirely real himself. He never thought he'd come back here, not like this.

He climbs up the rusted scaffolding, sits on one of the unfinished concrete structures, and waits.

It's brisk, cold enough to make his fingers feel numb, and he breathes warm air into them to get the feeling back. The air tastes clean, like early morning in the countryside, back home. He closes his eyes and listens.

It's quiet.

He's...calm. He's going to die, and that's...okay. He wasn't supposed to be here to begin with, here in this place or this time, and Bad Cop won't need him anymore once Business is stopped. The world will be saved, Bad Cop will be alive, and he'll be gone.

Just the way it's supposed to be.

He sits on the cold concrete with his walking stick laid across his lap and waits.

It's around midnight when he hears the distinct crunch of gravel. He looks up. Without his glasses, he can't make out much more than a dark shape against the cracked stonework, but he's more than willing to bet that's Lucy.

He pulls out his phone and sends her a text.

<< hello.

He hits send, and about ten seconds later, he sees the dark shape move, and a flash of a phone screen, then what is clearly Lucy looking around the construction site.

_> > where r u?_

He texts back:

<< that's not important.

<< vit said you wanted to talk.

<< I want to talk.

Lucy looks at the texts, then around again. "Quinn?" she asks, and her voice sounds so small, so hollow in the construction site. "Quinn, where are you?"

<< I'm here.

<< you'll have to forgive me for not wanting a face to face conversation

<< after what happened last time.

He's too far away to see her facial expression when she reads the texts, but the message is clear. He's close enough to hear her, and he's not coming out.

"Why'd you call me out?" she asks. "And why here?"

<< you wanted to talk.

<< so talk.

"Quinn..." Lucy looks up from her phone, takes a few steps towards a location a ways to his left, then says, "Quinn, I wanted to say sorry."

She looks at her phone again, but Quinn doesn't send any response. She'll have to say more than that.

"I don't know if you believe me, but I do. I...after you shot us down to help Bad Cop, I was really mad at you, like, _really_ mad. I thought we were on the same side and everything, and you just turned your back on all of us and _helped Bad Cop._

"And then you disappeared for two weeks and nobody had any idea where you were. A lot of us thought you went to Business, like maybe you were a spy and once your cover was blown, you had to go back. I...I broke into the bakery to try and figure out where you went, and I'm sorry about that too, I shouldn't have done that. But I found your radio, and it was connected to the police channels. So I figured, that must have been how Bad Cop told you what to do. Or something."

<< bad cop doesn't tell me what to do.

Lucy glances down, then back up and around. "Uh, right. But we had to figure out what the deal was with you, and, um. Usually, with Master Builders, we go into their mindscapes to...to see if they're trustworthy."

<< with their consent, I hope.

There's a pause. "Yeah," Lucy says, and to her credit, she does sound ashamed. "We're supposed to always tell people what's going on before we go into their minds unless there's some...extenuating circumstances."

<< like with me?

"No! No, that was...that was wrong. I should have talked to you about it, and I mean, you wouldn't have let me go in there, which is fair. I...I wish I hadn't looked," Lucy says.

<< because you lost your master building powers?

<< because you didn't find what you wanted?

Lucy looks around again, trying to figure out where he is. "Quinn, no. No, I mean, yes, losing my Master Building sucks, and everything else sucks, like some of the stuff you had in there gave me honest-to-goodness nightmares and-- I mean, usually it's pretty easy to look at memories. They're usually just floating around unless they're big secret things, and, um, it was obvious when Benny and I got in that you...you were really private. Benny bailed when he saw that, but I didn't, and I kept going in, and then you realized I was there and, well, you remember all of that, don't you?" She exhales heavily. "Most people don't. And I mean, most people don't realize when there's someone in their mindscape, if they're dreaming. Which doesn't make it better, obviously. It's...not great."

<< it's not.

Lucy looks down, paces around a bit, then looks back up. "I'm sorry, Quinn. I hurt you. I shouldn't have pushed. I shouldn't have looked. I just, there was..." She shakes her head. "Never mind."

Quinn leans his chin on his hands, then taps out a response on his phone.

<< I accept your apology.

<< but I don't forgive you.

<< I don't know if I will.

<< you had no right to look through my memories like you did.

<< if I had a choice, I wouldn't talk to you at all, ever again.

<< I appreciate that you're sorry, but that won't change what you did or saw.

Lucy reads the responses, then says, "Okay. I...I guess that's fair." She does something with her hands, then says, "That's all I wanted to say, I think."

Quinn nods to himself. Lucy isn't a bad person. He knows she isn't, but it doesn't take a bad person to do bad things, and this isn't something either of them can just forget. Not now. Perhaps not ever.

He takes a deep breath. He has one more thing to take care of.

<< you said you deserved the piece of resistance.

<< why?

There's a long pause. "I said that? Geez, I probably did, didn't I? It feels like such a long time ago and..." She hesitates, then says, "I don't want the Piece of Resistance anymore. It's just, after the crummy things I did to you, and then losing my Master Building powers, I...I don't deserve to be the Special. I really don't."

That's not good enough.

<< answer the question.

"What? I--I just...the Special's supposed to be the most talented, most interesting, most important person, right? And I thought that if I could just find the Piece of Resistance, then I could prove to everyone that I was, well, talented and important and stuff," Lucy says. "But that's not how it works, is it? I was just never meant to be the Special, because I'm not really any of those things."

Lucy looks around. "Quinn?" she asks, her voice thick. "You're, you're still there, right?"

<< do you still want it?

<< the piece of resistance.

"I--" Lucy says. "What the heck, Quinn? I just told you I didn't! I'm not the Special, I don't get the Piece of Resistance, that's how it works!"

<< ignore everything about the special.

<< if you could get the piece of resistance, would you?

"I..." Lucy swipes at her eyes, then says, "Yeah, I mean, we've got to stop Business, and the Kragle. But I...I don't think I could save the world. I'm not _special,_ not like...that."

<< lucy, there's no such thing as a Special.

"W-what? You're lying. That's impossible!"

<< vitruvius made up the prophecy. you can feel free to ask him about it, though he might not want to tell you the truth

<< there's no such thing as one prophesied special who's the greatest, most interesting person in the world and will come down and save everything.

<< there's no special.

<< there's no magic solution to this.

There's a long, long pause.

"But...that doesn't change the fact that I'm not good enough to save the world," Lucy says. "I'm...I'm _scared,_ Quinn! They talk about what's happened before, and I'm scared that Business will capture me, or I won't be able to fight off the robots, or--I'll freeze up again. I'm not even a Master Builder anymore."

<< being scared doesn't make you weak.

<< you'd have to be an idiot to not be scared, in times like this.

"Yeah, I...I think I've heard that one before," Lucy says.

<< lucy, saving the world isn't about master building or being the most talented or important or interesting person. it's about scared people who want things to be better.

<< you're capable. I know you are.

<< you know you're capable. you're constantly trying to be better so people will acknowledge you.

<< so think.

<< could you take the piece of resistance and stop the kragle?

Weighty silence settles across the construction site.

Lucy sits down on the gravel and clasps her hands, and she thinks about it. Quinn lets her. He can't force her into this decision.

He sits and listens to the wind on the chain-link fence, flexes his cold fingers to try and get some warmth into them, and he waits.

"I..." Lucy eventually says. "I think I could."

<< I see.

<< go two yards forward, then one yard to your left, and dig.

Lucy looks around again, searching for him. "What? You--you can't be serious."

<< I'm serious.

<< dig up the piece

<< come here tomorrow with people you trust

"But why, why would you just _give_ me the Piece of Resistance? Why would you give it to _me,_ after what I did to you?"

<< because I can't take it

<< there's no such thing as a special, but I'm still the special. I found the piece of resistance.

<< for anyone to take the piece of resistance to the kragle, they have to get around business

<< I'm the only person who can distract him long enough, because he thinks I'm the one who's destined to stop him. he won't even consider anyone else taking the piece of resistance.

<< and that means someone else has to take it

Lucy sputters. "But I-- You trust _me?"_

<< this isn't about me.

<< I trust that you want to stop business.

<< and that you'll do everything you can to stop the kragle.

<< everything else is irrelevant.

"I..." She trails off, then turns away to dig up the Piece of Resistance.

She digs the gravel out by hand. It takes her over half an hour to unearth the Piece of Resistance, shining red and completely untouched by the earth and grime it was buried in. She reaches out to touch it and--

She picks it up.

Quinn exhales. Perhaps to her, it's a normal object. No visions, no nightmares. It's better for her that way.

She sets the Piece of Resistance on the ground beside her, then turns back in vaguely Quinn's direction. "Quinn? Are you still there?"

<< yes

"I...A long time ago, you told me that my goals weren't the same as your goals. And that I'd figure it out eventually." She cards her fingers through her hair. "Um, Bad Cop, he's...he's your brother, isn't he? Your faces look almost exactly the same." 

<< he is

"I, when I saw your memories. You, I saw some of the things that Business did to him. And you're...you're trying to save him, Bad Cop, aren't you? That's what you've been trying to do all this time?" Lucy asks. "That's why you hate Business so much."

<< yes

Lucy looks down at the Piece of Resistance, then back up again. "Wow. I guess I...I'm sorry I thought you were working for Business. And I mean, I don't like Bad Cop, he's done too much to us, but you really care about him, and I get why you're trying to help him, and all that."

She picks the Piece of Resistance up, and slings it under her arm. "Geez. We're doing this tomorrow? For real?"

<< good cop will be here tomorrow at noon to help you get into the Tower.

<< I'll be able to distract business for a few hours, at least.

<< so you have that much time to find the kragle and disable it.

"Okay. Okay. I can do that. And...and after this, after everything's done, we're probably never going to talk again, are we?" Lucy asks.

<< no

Lucy sighs. "Okay. That's...that's fair. In that case, I just wanted to say...thanks. Not just for this, but for talking to me, and not acting like I was a little kid who couldn't handle myself. It really meant a lot, and I blew it, and I'm sorry. I really am."

<< goodbye, lucy

"Yeah, um. Just, before I go," she says. "I, uh. I brought your glasses. You left them back at the apartment and some other stuff, and I thought you might want them back." She takes a look over the construction site, then says, "I don't know where you are, but you can see me, right? I'm just going to put these down here, and you can pick them up later." She takes something out of her hoodie and places it on the ground.

"Right. That's all. Bye, Quinn."

Lucy leaves the construction site with the Piece of Resistance, and then there's just Quinn.

Quinn, alone on the construction site.

* * *

83.

Quinn sits there for a long time, thinking.

He's putting a heavy responsibility on Lucy's shoulders, and he hopes she can handle it. He can only hope his trust isn't misplaced.

He takes a deep breath and unlocks his phone. He scrolls over to the voice messages and hovers over the one unread message.

He's not scared of what's going to happen. Or, he is, he's terrified, but he knows there's no other option. It's the best way out, maybe not for him, but for everyone else, and this isn't about him.

It was never about him.

He's never going to be able to talk to B again, he's never going to be able to spend time at home with Ma and Pa, he's never going to be able to walk the streets of Bricksburg and just be _himself._

He wants to rest, he wants to feel safe and comfortable, he wants to eat food and read books and learn things and--

He doesn't want to die. He doesn't want to die in Business's interrogation room, choking on air, bleeding out, all alone.

But he will, and he can't change that. Not if he wants to save B. Not if he wants the others to stop the Kragle and save the world. His future is set, not because of the Piece of Resistance's visions, but because he has to keep Bad Cop safe. That's all it is, in the end.

He plays the voicemail. He wants to hear his parents' voices, one last time. 

_"Hey, son,"_ Pa says. _"We heard that everyone's been looking for you."_

 _"I think they want us to call you back,"_ Ma says. _"But I think you know whether you need to come back or not."_

 _"We can't know what you're after, but we know you'll do what you have to do, now. You always have, son,"_ Pa says.

 _"We love you, dear,"_ Ma says. _"No matter what, and no matter what you've been through, you'll always be our wonderful sons. We know you'll do the right thing."_

 _"We love you. Take care of yourselves, now,"_ Pa says.

Quinn stares at his phone screen until it times out and goes black, and he blinks, only to find that he's crying.

Ma and Pa. He misses them so much, has missed them so much ever since he landed in the past. He wishes that he could see them again so _badly,_ but there's no time. Not when Emmet's in Octan and his parents are so far away in Cloud Cuckooland.

He hopes they don't hear about how he goes. He wanted to save them from having to deal with a dead son, but now, he's just going to do it again. Maybe if they don't hear what happens to him, they can think that he went back to his own timeline, his own world. Maybe that wouldn't be so bad for them.

He twines and untwines his fingers nervously. He has to do the right thing.

That's what B would do, back before Business broke him and beat him down and down and down until he couldn't be put back together the same way again.

Quinn...he doesn't know what the right thing _is._ He never has, not the way that Bad Cop could intuitively _feel_ it. Bad Cop was his conscience for so many years, but he's gone now. Quinn has to decide what's right and wrong for himself.

He can't save the world. He can't save everybody.

He has to make sacrifices. He knows that.

He has to go to Octan and face what's waiting there, and he has to do it because there's so many lives, so many futures riding on it, and because it's the right thing to do.

He puts his face in his hands and tries to breathe.

Oh, god, he hopes this is the right thing to do.

* * *

84.

_"Wake up."_

Quinn makes a noise from the back of his throat and snuggles deeper into his jacket. Someone grabs his arm and shakes him gently.

"Quinn. I need to talk to you. Wake up."

Slowly, Quinn opens his eyes and blinks a few times to focus. It's well into the day, maybe ten or eleven in the morning. He hadn't even realized he'd fallen asleep.

His younger self stares back at him. "When I told you to meet me somewhere, I didn't mean sleeping outside in the cold. You look terrible." He huffs in exasperation, then pulls something bundled in a napkin out of his jacket and hands it to Quinn. "Here. I don't know if you've eaten, so I brought a pork bun. It's still warm."

Quinn nods and unwraps it. He doesn't really feel hungry anymore, but that's probably nerves more than anything else. He needs to eat.

"I've taken care of B. I can make sure he's asleep for three or four more hours before he realizes something's going on," his younger self says. "After that, I can probably force him to stay down, but I'm not as confident about that."

Quinn glances up from his bun. _{You're suppressing him?}_

"You didn't think he was just _sleeping_ at this time of day, did you?" His younger self asks. "He's been suppressing me for over a year now. Turnabout is fair play."

Quinn grimaces, but he can't argue with it, not now. Bad Cop would never agree with this plan, and if he knew about it, he'd do everything he could to stop it. They both know it.

"I'll apologize to him later, after we've taken care of Business," Good Cop says. "Until then, we have work to do."

Quinn nods.

Good Cop shifts to a more comfortable sitting position, then says, "I can take you directly to Business. Knowing him, he'll want to work on you as soon as possible. When he's occupied, I'll come back here and get your Master Builder friends and bring them in. I couldn't find where the Kragle is being held, but I have a good idea of the general area. We'll have to work fast."

Good Cop exhales, then looks Quinn in the eyes. "You know what you're doing, right? This plan won't work if you back out."

Quinn nods again, even as the uneasy feeling in his stomach intensifies. He's calmer than he should be, he thinks. He's scared, but he's ready, or as ready as he'll ever be.

"Good," Good Cop says. "Do you trust me?"

There's no simple answer to that. In general, no. He wouldn't trust himself further than he could spit. But right now? Right now, Good Cop is the linchpin of this entire plan. Quinn nods, slowly.

"Okay." Good Cop rummages in his pockets a bit, then pulls out a small object. "Take this."

He puts the object into Quinn's hand. It's small and cold. Quinn looks at it. It's a bottle of potassium cyanide, the same one he'd almost used to murder Business, over two years ago.

Quinn stares at the little bottle of poison, less than the length of his palm, then at Good Cop. His younger self's face is completely impassive, and he passes Quinn an elastic band. "Put it in your sleeve. You don't have to use it," he says, "but I wanted you to have the option."

Quinn grimaces and uses the elastic band to secure the bottle against his arm. It's cold against his skin, just on the outside of his forearm, and invisible through his the sleeves of his too-big shirt.

Good Cop unclips a pair of handcuffs from his belt. "If you're ready, we can go now."

 _{Wait.}_ Quinn pulls his dirty glasses out of his pocket and holds them out. _{After Bad Cop died, I wasn't able to find his glasses. Hold onto these in case something happens and he wants them.}_

Good Cop looks at them for a long moment, then takes them. "I'm sorry," he says softly.

 _{It's fine,}_ Quinn says. _{It was a long time ago.}_

Good Cop's mouth twists and he gives Quinn a long look. "I'm sorry, Quinn."

Quinn takes the handcuffs from Good Cop and puts them on.

* * *

85.

Octan Tower is tall.

It's a lot of other things, too, but the only one that Quinn can think of at the moment is that it's very, very tall. He might be going into shock.

Good Cop marches him down the endless corridors and says nothing. Quinn looks down and listens to the sound of their footsteps on the linoleum.

It's been over two years since he was last in the Tower, but standing in it again, it's like he never left.

He takes a deep breath. Octan smells exactly like he remembers: unnaturally sterile, vaguely metallic, just a little bit stale. It pulls him back, back into those years he spent working here, pacing the hallways, dealing with robots, and shuffling paperwork.

He doesn't have fond memories of this place. The seven and a half years he spent at Octan all blurs together into a grey mass of robots and shouting and late nights and coffee. Even Business's particular brand of discipline eventually became regular enough that it was just another _part_ of his time here.

Thinking about it now, he really doesn't have that many distinct memories of Octan at all, and the few things he _does_ clearly recall aren't the sort of things he wants to remember. As a policy, he tries not to remember these years as the last ones he had with B, and when everything went so wrong.

Good Cop prods him in the back with a baton. "You're slowing down. You're not having second thoughts, are you?"

Quinn shakes his head and walks a little faster. It's beyond the point where he can back out. Even if he had second thoughts now, he's already in cuffs and his younger self would deliver him to Business anyways.

He honestly can't tell if he's calm or panicking. His mind is quiet, but his hands are shaking and his legs feel weak from adrenaline. He can feel the blood rushing in his ears, pumping in his fingers, and everything seems so _sharp_ around him.

Hissing pipes. Creaking ceiling tiles. Groaning vents. Footsteps.

Good Cop takes him up to Business. There's something about having to call up, and a conversation of sorts, but Quinn keeps his head down and ignores most of it. None of it is useful for him, anyways.

And then they're there, in one of Business's grandiose white rooms that only seem to exist for the express purpose of impressing people. It's downright cavernous, and opulent with its marble tiling, plush red carpet, and drapery. The set of dark double doors towers over them.

Good Cop leans closer and murmurs, "Remember, you're doing this for B."

Then, the doors slam open, the impact echoing through the room, and there. There's Business.

"What's all this about?" he asks, very loudly. "I was in a very important meeting, very important. So whatever you've got to show me, it better be good."

Good Cop's grip on Quinn's arm tightens. "No worries, Lord Business, sir! I think you'll be very happy about this."

"Get to the _point,_ Good Cop," Business cuts in.

"Ah, of course." Good Cop pushes Quinn forward. "We've captured the Special. Sir."

Business waves his hand dismissively. "Is that all? I've got some very important arrangements to make so I can take care of that dang Special--" He blinks, then looks back at Good Cop. "Wait a second, you captured the Special?"

Good Cop nods. "Yes, sir. Here he is."

Business takes two long strides towards them and leans over to examine Quinn. Quinn pulls back slightly and hopes that Business can't hear how his heart is thundering. Standing here, with no glasses, no mask, and Good Cop's tight grip on his arm, he can't help but feel horribly exposed.

Business stands up straight and laughs. "Well! Looks like you did something right for once, Good Cop! It looks like everything's turning up for me!" He looks at Quinn again, then frowns. "Where's the Piece of Resistance?"

"He didn't have it when we caught him, sir," Good Cop says. "We searched him and the premises, but couldn't find it. We suspect that he hid it elsewhere. If you want, we can take him down to interrogation--"

"No!" Business bursts in. "No, I think it would be better if I took care of this interrogation, don't you think, Good Cop? It's such a... _special_ occasion, after all."

"Sir, that's not necessary," Good Cop says. "We can take care of the Special--"

Business grabs Good Cop by the shoulder and says, "I _said,_ I'll interrogate him. Is that clear, Good Cop?"

"I--ah, of course, Lord Business, sir," Good Cop says, and Quinn can _hear_ his strained smile. "Do you want me to take him to the holding cells until you're ready?"

"Yes, I think that would be positively _wonderful._ Go and do that." Business makes an exaggerated shooing motion. "I've got to go clear my entire schedule right now so I can make time for our honored guest. We'll just have the most _lovely_ time together, the Special and me."

"Right away, sir," Good Cop says. He takes Quinn and pulls him back towards the exit.

Quinn can feel the blood thudding in his ears as they leave and there's already sweat dripping down his brow.

Just a few hours, he thinks.

Just a few hours.

* * *

86.

Good Cop takes Quinn to a holding cell.

"I don't envy you at all," Good Cop says as he shows Quinn in. "Business...well, you already know about him."

Quinn sits on the bench of the cell.

"You probably don't want to hear it from me, but thank you, Quinn," Good Cop says.

Quinn clasps his hands and looks down at them.

Good Cop locks the door.

* * *

Business doesn't retrieve him in person. Of course he doesn't, Business never does any sort of legwork unless it suits him, and Quinn honestly thinks that he might not even know the passcodes to the holding cells.

The robots that escort him to Business are neither delicate nor sympathetic to his position. He didn't expect them to be, but it still makes him uneasy when most of the robots he remembers are Bad Cop's, which all developed their own personalities and quirks over time. Not human personalities and quirks, perhaps, but _individuality_ at least. These robots feel like they've just stepped off of the machine dies--only programmed to follow orders, and impossible to reason with.

He's in Business's hands now. He has been for a while now, but now he _feels_ it.

The robots shove him into an office, and there's Business, with his feet on the desk, hair newly combed, and wearing his best suit, his 'special occasions' tie included. He looks extremely pleased, and that has never, ever led to good things happening.

"So you're the Special, huh?" Business asks. "The greatest, most interesting, most _important_ person in the whole world? Well let me tell you, that prophecy is a hunk of baloney, because there's no way _you_ could be that important, much less important enough to defeat _me."_

Quinn looks at him impassively. He's not scared of Business the way he used to be, back when he worked for the man. Now that he doesn't have Bad Cop, now that he doesn't have his time period or world, now that even his _life_ is a foregone conclusion, there's really nothing left to lose except his dignity. 

And that, well, it's not like he had much to begin with.

"After all," Business continues, "I'm basically the most important person in the world, so I can do whatever I want, and you were dumb to think you could stop me. Maybe if you're lucky, I'll keep you around until I use the Kragle to destroy the world."

Quinn doesn't respond. He's heard most of this before, in different words and situations, but the gist of it has always been the same. He's tired of it.

Business frowns. "You're really no fun. Where's the 'You'll never get away with this' or the 'Curse you, Business, you incredibly handsome and powerful master of evil'? You're supposed to yell at me when I gloat so I can revel in your defeat! This silent treatment is really taking the wind out of my sails. I can't believe someone as _pathetic_ as you could seriously be the Special."

There's an awkward silence as Business stares at Quinn, waiting for some response. When none is forthcoming, Business says, "Ugh, fine. We can do it the proper way if you're gonna be such a _stick in the mud."_ He gets up out of his seat and walks around to Quinn. "So you know where the Piece of Resistance is, don't you? Do you want to do this the easy way and tell me where it is? Or do you want to do this the hard way where I _force_ you to tell me?"

Quinn doesn't respond.

"Not gonna talk? That's smart," Business says. "We're doing the hard way, whether you like it or not, which you won't. Just so we're clear."

He snaps his fingers. "Take him to the Think Tank!"


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things were always going to end this way. It was just a question of when.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the torture chapter, so heads up.

87.

Sometimes, Quinn dreams about the Think Tank.

He dreams about late, late nights, walking across the steel platforms, listening to his footsteps echo throughout the chamber. He dreams about pacing down the walkways during maintenance and looking each trapped Master Builder in the face. They yell and curse at him until eventually, they say nothing at all.

He remembers desperate pleas to end it all, and ignoring each and every one of them.

It feels like stepping into a dream as he's pushed onto the floor of the Think Tank. The containment pods stretch up into the sky under eerie blue lights, too far for Quinn to really see how far it goes. There's a faint smell of coolant and a low drone of machinery that permeates the entire space, and an atmosphere that feels heavy, too heavy to move, too heavy to even breathe. He can feel goosebumps spreading across his skin, and he's only a little bit sure it's because of the temperature.

"Speechless, are you?" Business crows. "This is one of my masterpieces, the Think Tank! All of your Master Builder friends, gathered here to help me build my perfect world!" He sweeps past Quinn to the control panel and taps a few buttons.

 _"Hello, Master Builders!"_ he says directly into the intercom. His voice booms out into the Think Tank. _"As you can see, it's me, the great Lord Business, who, if you forgot, is way better than all of you."_

The Master Builders, the lucid ones, at least, burst into a roar of angry shouting and struggling against the Think Tank's restraints.

Business smiles. _"I'm sure you're all wondering what the occasion is. Well, your Special of prophecy is real! I know, I'm just as surprised as any of you."_

A wave of confusion passes through the Master Builders to the tune of 'the Special?' and 'the prophecy'. Quinn keeps his head down.

_"Yes! It's true! I'd never lie, or I mean, I would definitely lie, and about pretty much anything, but I wouldn't lie about this one particular thing right now."_

"You're going down, Business!" someone shouts.

"The Special will defeat you!"

"Yeah!"

The shouting rises again in a furious roar decrying Business and all he stands for. Business lets it go for a few minutes before calmly pressing a button on the control panel.

There's a crackle of electricity, a flash, and screaming as the Think Tank bursts with energy.

Quinn flinches back from the noise. It's cacophonous, so many voices blending into one, echoing around the chamber in a unanimous screech of _pain._

Business lets the button go, and the electricity stops. Silence falls, and he turns to face Quinn.

"It's wonderful, isn't it? Those Master Builders get so _disagreeable_ sometimes, but a tap from the Think Tank and they all settle down," he says. "Don't worry, I've got a spot all ready for you."

He leans back into the intercom and says, _"Don't worry, all of you Master Builders, the Special is real."_ His lips curl back into a feral grin. _"He's right here."_

The robot holding Quinn throws him forward and he staggers to not fall flat on his face. He can practically feel every gaze in the room shift to him. He stares resolutely at the ground. He doesn't want to see all of the Master Builders trapped here, all the people's last hopes that are riding squarely on him.

There's mutters. Disbelief, mostly. Confusion. Most of the people here don't know him, and wouldn't recognize his face when he's not wearing his glasses or uniform. It's probably better that way.

"Go on, Special," Business says. "Give them an inspiring speech. I know how you _good guys_ love those. Tell them how you're going to save the world now."

Quinn doesn't answer. Even if he could speak, there's nothing he could say to help these people, not right now.

"Oh? Nothing? Even _you_ know your situation is hopeless," Business says. "I like that in an enemy. Knowing when to give up and make my life easier." He gestures for Quinn to move. "Come over here. Let's chat."

Quinn sneers at Business and doesn't move. He might be giving himself over willingly, but that doesn't mean he's going to just roll over and comply to everything the man wants.

Business snaps his fingers and another set of robots grab Quinn and force him to walk to Business. They shove him roughly and he falls to his knees against the steel floor. He winces.

"Now, about that Piece of Resistance," Business says. "Do you want to make yourself useful and tell me where you hid it? I know you know, so don't try pretending you don't to get out of this."

Quinn stays impassive.

"Well, it was worth a shot," Business says with a shrug. He gestures to some of the robots and they drag Quinn to his feet. "Tell me, Special, do you know what the Think Tank does?"

He does, of course. Business used the Think Tank to exploit the collective powers of hundreds of Master Builders to generate all of the plans for the city renovations and the machines he used to maintain his iron grip on the city and its people. Of course, the method by which the Think Tank accomplished such a thing wasn't exactly humane, and it was exceedingly painful, to the point that it caused permanent damage over time. Even two years after everyone was freed, before Quinn got punched by a wizard into the past, many Master Builders were still recovering.

He says none of this.

"It's a fantastic piece of work, you know. I came up with it, so of course it's awesome," Business says as he presses a few more buttons on the control panel. "In fact, I'm the only one who can shut this thing down. Not even Bad Cop has the codes to do that.

"But you know, it was a lot of work, figuring out how I could use this machine to get into all those Master Builder heads, and get all them to connect together and give me the things I want," Business says, pulling a lever. 

A mechanical whirring sound springs to life somewhere above and Quinn looks up to see a large descending shadow. As it comes closer, it becomes clear that it's one of the Think Tank pods, but not quite. It's stripped down to its bare machinery, and looks nearly grotesque with its exposed wires and motors criss-crossing the titanium support beams.

"What you might want to know," Business continues, "is that the Think Tank started out as a way to pull information out of Master Builders."

The pod clanks to a stop beside Quinn. Its machinery emits a low hum that makes him feel ill.

"So if you don't tell me where the Piece of Resistance is, I'm just going to take it out of your head. How does that sound?" Business asks.

Bile rises in the back of Quinn's throat. He can feel cracked ice and black water in the back of his mind, still raw from when Lucy ripped through his memories, trying to find whatever she was trying to find. Business's Think Tank will be far, far less gentle.

"So, Special," Business says with a little grin that Quinn doesn't like at all. "Where _is_ the Piece of Resistance?"

Quinn's frozen. He can feel his hands shaking, he can hear blood rushing in his ears, he feels like the world is shifting beneath him. He's ready for a lot of things, but he's _not_ ready for the Think Tank.

It looms over him, a monstrosity of metal and machinery, crackling with electrical power. He can fight torture, he can fight knives and acid and fire, but he _can't_ fight the Think Tank. If he goes in there, if Business _succeeds_ and finds out that Lucy has the Piece of Resistance and that she and Good Cop are taking it to the Kragle _right now--_

Then it's over. Business wins, the world ends, Bad Cop dies.

The robots reach out to grab him and Quinn pulls back from their grasp. Desperately, he breaks into a run, but the fetters on his ankles catch and he trips, falling headlong into the steel floor with a crash.

A pair of robots grabs him by the shoulders and drags him to the Think Tank pod, oblivious to his thrashing. They force him into the cage and strap him down, wide leather straps pulled so tightly that he can hardly breathe. A robot forces his head against the back plate, hard steel, and he hisses as pain blooms across the back of his skull. There's a click somewhere behind him and the machinery around him whirs to life, too close to his head, too close to his face. Metal apparatus folds in over his head and clamps shut, thrusting him into complete darkness.

He can't move.

He can't--

He can't see, he can't hear, he can't _breathe,_ it's just the thudding of his heartbeat against the straps, the sweat trailing down his face--

Blinding white light bursts through his consciousness, and there's ice and water and--

_Pain._

Pain rips through his mind, crashes through and shatters him with thunderous force. It hurts, it hurts more than anything that Business has ever done to him. He can't think, he can't stop the torrential _thing_ that floods his mind to bursting and pulls him apart.

Suddenly, blackness cuts into his vision through the white, and--

\--and--

He blinks and it takes him what feels like an eternity to register that he's--

He's slumped forwards, with only the leather straps keeping him upright. There's blurry shapes and shouting and he can't...

_"--off--the machine--something malf--"_

His throat feels raw and his mouth is dry. Was...was he screaming? He blinks and hot tears roll down his face from--

from...

There's metal hands on him and he's barely aware as he collapses forwards and hits the ground.

_"--take him--interrogation--old-fashioned--"_

He registers someone grabbing his arm and dragging him away just before his mind goes white.

* * *

88.

Quinn comes back to awareness slowly and in pieces.

He feels his hands, first. There's something digging into his wrists, and cold metal under his palms.

Then there's his legs. He's seated, and the chair is also metal. His feet are flat on the floor.

He hears the faint hum of a fluorescent light, and breathing--two people breathing. There's a soft swish of fabric on fabric, and short clicks and beeps that sound suspiciously like the sound effects from a phone keyboard.

He's slumped over with his face against metal--a metal table, it must be. There's something cold inside his sleeve, against the outside of his elbow. Something smooth and small, right against his skin.

The air is warm. A bit too warm, and a bit too still.

His body aches like he's been looped into knots, and his muscles feel tender and raw. His mind feels like black water and endless white fog.

Slowly, he sits up. He blinks to clear his eyes, and the fog in his mind slides back, sending him straight into a vision.

Metal table. Bright lights. Dark room. Handcuffs. Business.

He's here.

He takes a long, shuddering breath in. He's here. He's in the interrogation room. This is where he dies.

"Oh, you're awake!" Business says from the other side of the table with a cheerful clap. "I was starting to worry! After that thing with the Think Tank, we might have crispy-fried all that important information in your head, but now that you're back, we can get some real work done!"

Business pulls a large leather satchel from a cart and sets it on the table. Slowly, deliberately, he undoes the latch and pulls it open. There's a glint of metal instruments inside, too small and too far away for Quinn to discern what exactly they are. That doesn't matter so much. He can make an educated guess.

Business pulls one of them out and holds it up for examination. The blade flashes as it catches the light. A scalpel.

Leisurely, Business makes his way around the table and grabs Quinn by the chin, and Quinn has to suppress the bile that rises just from Business touching him. With a sharp jerk, Business pulls up, forcing Quinn to look at him.

Business is smiling again. Quinn would go so far as to say that he's never seen Business this happy, ever.

"So, Special, where's the Piece of Resistance?" he asks. "For the record, I don't think you'll actually tell me, but I figured I'd ask. You're going to tell me at some point, so maybe you just want to get it over with now." Business makes a light twirling motion with the scalpel, reminiscent of a conductor with a baton. "No? Great! Let's just jump to the fun part, then."

He grabs Quinn more firmly by the jaw, then touches the scalpel to his skin, just above the cheekbone.

"You'll want to hold still," Business says.

* * *

It turns out that in spite of his scarred vocal cords, with proper encouragement, Quinn can still scream perfectly well.

* * *

89.

This is not the first time Business has...dealt with Quinn.

Business was mercurial at the best of times, and at his worst, he was downright sadistic. Quinn, back when he worked at Octan, had faced the brunt of many bad days.

Business's moods ranged from blunt weapons to lashes and blades to fire and electricity, and he applied them with gusto and a certain amount of moderation. After all, he didn't _actually_ want to damage his best worker. Not too much, anyways.

Business doesn't care about that now.

 _"Where_ is the Piece of Resistance?" Business roars. "Your silent act won't last forever, Special, so _tell me!"_

Quinn hisses through his teeth, trying to breathe through the pain. His wrist is almost definitely broken, swollen to what feels like the size of a softball. Three of his fingers on the same hand are broken. There's criss-crossing cuts on his face, dancing far too close to the border of his eye socket. He can barely see with blood streaming into his eyes.

"Come _on._ We both know you're not brave. We both know you've already _lost!_ I already caught you, and when I'm done with you, I'm throwing you into the Think Tank for the rest of eternity! There's _nobody_ to save you, there's no _last hope!_ What can you _possibly_ be holding out for?"

Quinn closes his eyes. It hurts, it _hurts,_ he's burning, his skin is burning, and he's aching from bruises across his back and sides, courtesy of Business's baseball bat.

This is for Bad Cop. It's all for Bad Cop.

Business grabs his face and wrenches it upwards. _"Look at me_ when I talk to you!" Savagely, Business grabs his broken wrist and _squeezes._ Quinn's vision nearly blacks out. "I'll teach you not to listen to me," Business snarls as he picks up a wickedly sharp ice pick off of the table.

Quinn swallows. His mouth is dry and tastes like blood and bile. He feels nauseous.

 _"Are you going to listen to me, Special?"_ Business barks.

Quinn doesn't--can't respond.

With a growl, Business slams the ice pick down, punching the steel spike straight through Quinn's hand.

Quinn screams.

* * *

90.

Eventually, Quinn loses all sense of time.

His eyes are swollen from crying and Business's fists, and he's sore and bleeding and burned. His shirt's been slit open and torn ragged by Business's cuts and what's left of it is spotted with drying blood. It smells like sweat and blood and it's still too warm, much too warm.

The bottle of cyanide is still there, held against the outside of his broken forearm by an elastic band.

It's tempting.

But with his broken fingers, it's no easy matter to even open the bottle, and he...he doesn't know if it's safe yet. He's not sure if he ever will, he doesn't know if Good Cop will come back for him, after everything is finished.

Quinn hisses. He can't give up now. He can't afford to, not when... Not when...

He grits his teeth and tries to breathe, and even that sends needles of pain through his body. It hurts so much, it hurts so much that he just...

He wants it to be over.

He wants it to stop.

* * *

He hears the door slam open. It's Business coming back for another go; perhaps he's found something new and exotic to try on him. Quinn exhales and--

_"G."_

That's not Business's voice. Quinn opens his eyes and slowly looks towards the door.

There, standing in the doorway, is Good Cop.

"Oh, _god,"_ and no, that's not Good Cop's voice, "G, _what--"_ He steps over to the table, and Quinn looks up. Bad Cop stares him in the face. "What the _heck_ is going on? You, I, how did you get captured?"

Quinn looks back down at the table. He doesn't need this right now.

"G-- Ciaran, you can _hear_ me, can't you? You..." his voice trembles. "Business did this to you."

He reaches down to look at Quinn's face, and Quinn flinches away in pain.

 _"Ciaran,"_ Bad Cop says, and his voice cracks. "What, what's the meaning of this? I just woke up, and--" He rummages in his pockets and pulls out a pair of glasses, Quinn's glasses. "Why do I have these? Why are these in my pocket, Ciaran, what's going on?"

Is it over? Quinn can't ask. Am I done?

"You... _who brought you in,_ Ciaran?"

With his unbroken hand, Quinn signs, _{G.}_

"Good-- No, he wouldn't," Bad Cop says, shaking his head. "There's no way he could have-- not, not without me knowing, and I..."

He stares at Quinn, then takes a slow step back. "You...you two _planned_ this. You went behind my back and got captured to get tortured by Business on _purpose."_ He clenches his fists. "You _idiot!_ What are you _possibly_ going to achieve, doing this? You're going to _die!"_

Quinn lets his head fall forwards and rest on his chest. He's tired. He doesn't want to listen to this.

There's a pause, then, "Save _me?_ What kind of washed-up, useless--"

Another pause, then he slams his hands against the table, and Quinn looks up again. Bad Cop is furious.

"You," he growls. _"This_ was your plan? Are you an idiot? Of all the moronic, suicidal plans, how is _this_ supposed to save me?"

Quinn looks him in the eyes listlessly. This is the last time he'll see Bad Cop. Maybe if Bad Cop's angry at him when he dies, he won't miss him, assuming he even would in the first place. That wouldn't be so bad.

Bad Cop stares back until he can't stand it anymore and looks down. "Ciaran, I...I can't let you go, can I?"

Quinn shakes his head.

"No, I can't, you... I can't stop whatever you and G are trying to do. I..." Bad Cop clenches his fists and glances back at the door, then digs in his pocket and pulls out a pair of small handcuff keys on a jump ring. "Open your mouth," he says. "Business won't think to search you there. If you can, use them. Get out of here. Get somewhere safe."

Quinn lets Bad Cop slide the keys into his mouth. They taste metallic and bitter, and Quinn moves them under his tongue. He won't get to use them, but he appreciates the sentiment.

Bad Cop looks at him, his gaze trailing over all of Quinn's wounds--the burns, the cuts, the bruises.

"Be strong, Ciaran," he says. "I know you can. And I'm sorry."

His mouth twists, and he leaves. The door slams shut behind him.

* * *

91.

Eventually, after knives, bludgeons, electrodes, torches, and other tools, Business decides to get a little more creative.

He holds up an open flask of clear fluid. There's white fumes coming off of its surface, and when he swirls it, there's a slightly oily quality to it that's distinctly _not_ water.

"You're really being immature about this," Business says as he sets the flask down and puts on a pair of light blue nitrile gloves. "You can't keep up the silent treatment forever. It's kind of impressive you've kept it up this long, in an annoying way. _So,_ I'm going to give you one more chance to tell me where the Piece of Resistance is. If you don't, I'll take you back down to the Think Tank again, and I'll get the answers out of you that way."

Quinn's mind goes white for a moment at the mention of the Think Tank. He remembers it tearing through him, ripping him open, and--

And then they took him out. He doesn't know _what_ happened back there, except that something...something must have gone wrong. They shut it down, because something about it, or him, _broke_ something, and he doesn't know why except that the Think Tank was calibrated for Master Builder use, and he isn't one.

He...doesn't want to go back.

"Do you know what this is?" Business says, picking up the flask and holding it in front of Quinn's face. "It's acid. Very, very strong acid. You might even say it's the _strongest_ acid ever, except you _won't_ because you don't _talk!"_ he roars.

Quinn swallows. He's never been burned by acid, but he's not eager to find out what it's like.

Business glares at Quinn for a long moment, then clears his throat and adjusts his tie. "Well, I'm sure you'll change your mind."

He takes the flask and starts to pour.

* * *

There's blood everywhere. It's smeared across the floor, pooling in acid-burned divots of the table, all over his skin--

The acid eats and eats and eats away at his skin, burning wide swathes of exposed flesh that _bleed._ It hurts so much that he barely feels human anymore--just a mass of raw nerve endings, being ripped apart, again and again.

His hands, his back, his _face--_

He's scared to open his mouth, scared to open his eyes in case Business splashes it into his face again, and he can feel hot blood streaming down his face, dripping onto his pants and the floor. He can't smell anything but blood, can't feel anything but screaming pain in his entire body.

He hears a clink of glass on metal.

"You know something?" Business says as he pulls off his gloves and tossing them aside. "I'm disappointed. In a lot of things, really, all the time, but in this particular moment, I'm disappointed in you. You're the most _pathetic_ excuse for a Special I've ever seen."

Cautiously, Quinn opens one eye, the side that hasn't been splashed with acid. He has to blink a few times to focus.

The flask of acid is right there on the table, so close to his hand, almost close enough for him to touch.

How could Business be careless enough to leave it that close? But then, what can he even do with a half-full flask of acid? It's not like he can actually grab it and use it on Business.

"Of course, I haven't seen any other Specials, you're the only one, but you're telling me that out of the millions and billions and gazillions of people out there, _you_ were considered the most impressive, most handsome, and most awesome guy?" Business scoffs. "Unbelievable."

Quinn feels like the world is spinning. He must have lost a lot of blood; he smells like a slaughterhouse. He shifts forward in his seat, and the glass bottle of cyanide presses into his arm, cold and smooth.

Ah, right. He still has that. It's not going to be too useful at this point, but he appreciates the thought.

"You know what you are, Special? You're _nothing._ You're going to die, alone and unloved, because you're _not_ great or important or talented. You lost, and I won, because I'm all of those things and you're not."

Quinn exhales. Business really talks too much.

He blinks sweat out of his eye and tries to take deep breaths, manage the pain until Business starts again.

It's so warm and stuffy in the interrogation room. Airflow has been terrible for years, he remembers, but after everything else, it's unbearable.

Business paces slowly back and forth. "How does it feel, Special? Knowing that _all_ your friends who were depending on you are going to _die!_ Because you _suck,_ and you _let them all down!"_

Business's voice makes Quinn's head throb painfully. It's too loud and grating, and Quinn _hates_ the man right now, more than he ever has. If only he could just _get rid of him,_ him and his horrible, over-inflated, gassed-up ego.

Quinn clenches his jaw. It's sore from grinding his teeth together, but he can't force himself to relax, not without completely falling apart. If he could move, he thinks he could just _kill--_

Wait.

_Gas._

"Once I'm through with you, I won't even put you in the Think Tank, I'll Kragle you and put you on display so _everyone_ can see what happens when you cross the _great Lord Business!"_ A slow smile creeps across Business's face. "Maybe I'll have your nephew pull the trigger. Little Emmet Brickowski, he loves his uncle so much. Wouldn't it just break his heart to kill you? I bet you'd like _that,_ huh?"

Quinn carefully tries to move his broken arm and white-hot pain lances up from his wrist through his elbow. He winces, and forces his way through it to jostle the bottle of cyanide loose from the elastic band. It works its way out, rolls down his sleeve, and slips out of one of the many slits in the fabric onto the table with a soft _clink._

Quinn holds his breath and looks up at Business, but he's too caught up in his monologue to notice. With the short amount of slack on his cuffs, he scoots the bottle to his other, unbroken hand, and unscrews the cap with stiff, blood-slick fingers.

It's already partially unscrewed.

"You know, I bet you don't even _have_ friends," Business continues on. "Nobody tried to rescue you, and nobody's _coming_ to rescue you, either. Those Master Builders didn't even know who you are! You really _are_ just some nobody, aren't you?"

Quinn picks up the open bottle in shaky, blood-slick hands and lifts it carefully. He has one chance.

He tips the bottle over the flask of acid and white crystals shower down, dissolving as they sink into the sulfuric acid. He dumps in as much as he can, then drops the bottle of cyanide. It falls to the table, then rolls off to the floor.

Quinn lowers his head. Potassium cyanide in acid forms cyanide gas, which is lighter than air--it was an execution method that Business had considered, back before he decided the melting chamber was cheaper and safer and more entertaining.

Business laughs. "Look at you! You're so _useless!_ Given up like the _big hero_ you are. Well, good. There's no way you're getting out of this one, Special, so if you're still hoping, that train left the station _ages_ ago."

Quinn takes a shallow breath and closes his eyes. All he can do now is wait.

* * *

92.

It's maybe a minute or two later when Quinn smells it. Oil of bitter almonds.

Business is still talking, but Quinn can't even really hear anything but static. He's dizzy and nauseous, and he can't tell if it's because of the gas or the blood loss. He keeps his head down--if he has to go, he doesn't want it to be cyanide poisoning.

Quinn counts the seconds in his head, and they drag on for what feels like an eternity.

Business keeps talking, and talking. About how he's the best, and great, and powerful. He must not be able to smell the cyanide. A lot of people can't.

Then Business stutters, and does something that might be adjusting his jacket or tie. "Ugh," he says, "dealing with you is so _annoying._ Just being around you gives me a headache, and no wonder, when you're such a waste of space. I..." He grunts, then shouts, "Robots! Get me something to drink!" And then, back to Quinn, he says, "I bet you're thirsty, too. Well, that sucks for you! I know I've got to stay hydrated. Torturing you is _such_ thirsty work."

Quinn tries not to listen to him. The nauseous feeling is getting stronger, and he's feeling--out of breath.

Out of breath.

Business keeps--keeps talking. He talks faster, takes his water, keeps talking.

"Really, I should--should get a new interrogation room. This place is just, stuffy as all bejeezus. I'd never want to work somewhere this uncomfortable. Of course, it's not usually my problem, but, well, it is _now_ and I don't like that! Not at all!" His words start to slur into each other, and his voice becomes audibly strained. "Not at all, not at all."

Quinn tries to breathe, and panic starts rising in his chest.

_\--lungs full of water, reaching out for help--_

Business sets the glass of water down, but there's a swipe and a _crash_ as it hits the ground and shatters. "Oh, well, I meant to do--" he breaks off mid-sentence to retch, and when he recovers, what he says is no longer cohesive.

Business's body hits the floor, and Quinn opens his eyes.

He's trying to breathe. He feels sick, he's light-headed, he's dizzy, he can't breathe. He knows he _is_ breathing, he can feel his chest expanding and contracting, but there's no _air._

He spits out the handcuff keys and fumbles with them to unlock first the cuff on his broken wrist. It's a trial to get his shaking hands to cooperate, and to keep the keys from slipping through his bloody fingers. The cuff pops open, jostling his wrist and sending bolts of pain through his arm. He finagles with the keys in his teeth to undo his other cuff.

The cuff clicks open, and Quinn collapses to the floor.

It hurts. It hurts so much that Quinn can barely think, but he did it, he's made it so Lucy and them can stop the Kragle, so Bad Cop won't die, and all that's left is for him to go.

Business...Business is dead, or will be soon.

Quinn can barely even wrap his head around the concept. After all this time, after what he and Bad Cop went through, and Business is just...dead. Everything he did, everything he--

Quinn's eyes widen.

He forces himself up to his knees and starts to crawl to the door.

He's not done.

* * *

93.

Quinn drags himself down the hallway, propping his abused body against the walls and smearing a bloody trail across it as he forces himself to _move._ He can feel his life expiring as he goes, in every empty breath he takes, in every shaking step that propels him forward. There's not much time left.

Business was the only one who could shut down the Think Tank.

Business is gone.

But Quinn, something in his mind doesn't _fit,_ maybe it's his corrupted, destructive Master Building, or maybe it's because of what Business did to Bad Cop, so long ago, but it was bad enough that Business yanked him out of that machine, and Business wouldn't have cared unless he was causing some kind of damage to the system.

If he doesn't do something, those Master Builders, all the Master Builders he and Bad Cop helped Business catch, they're all trapped.

He doesn't know if he can do anything, he has no way to know if anything will work, but he's about to die, and he has nothing left to lose. He has to _try._

He pushes open the door to the Think Tank and collapses to the ground. Hundreds of eyes turn towards him as he crawls over the steel tile to the control panel. The isolated pod Business had called down for him is still there.

Quinn knows how to operate the Think Tank, to a certain extent. He knows how to load Master Builders, and in the end, that's enough. He adjusts the dials, presses the buttons, and keys the pod for automatic actuation.

Quinn pulls himself up to his feet and looks at the pod. The metal skeleton towers over him, like a monster welcoming him back into its embrace. His heart is thundering in his chest, he's dripping blood all over floor, and he can't even breathe.

He feels numb. Everything in his being protests going back in there. He remembers how it tore through him, shattered him to pieces. He knows he's going to die, but he can't die like this. He can't, he _can't--_

But this isn't about him. It's not even about saving Bad Cop anymore.

It's...it's about doing the right thing.

Shakily, under the gaze of seemingly everyone in the room, he steps into the pod. He turns around and sets his head against the steel backplate.

The machine comes alive around him, and it swallows him into darkness, trapping him. He can't move, can't breathe.

White, blinding pain.

And then there's nothing at all.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good Cop makes a choice.

???.

_He falls._

_He falls for a long time._

_Is this what death is like?_

* * *

_He's in the lake again._

_There's white ice above him and black water all around. Shards of glass drift down all around him, holding memories that he doesn't need to see. He's blissfully numb as he sinks down, and it's silent except for the ebb and flow of the currents around him._

_The water is warm._

_He did it. He saved Bad Cop. He helped Lucy and her friends to stop the Kragle and save the world. He may have even helped those Master Builders in the Think Tank, but he'll never know now._

_That's okay._

_He's finished everything he had to. This time's Bad Cop is alive and happier without him, his parents are safe without having to see their son get erased, and now all that's left is to slip out of this world, this time, just as quietly as he'd entered it._

_He drifts deeper in the water, watching the white ice above fade into darkness. It's easy, now, to just let himself go._

_He closes his eyes and lets the darkness fold over him._

* * *

\--inn.

Quinn? Can you hear me?

_He opens his eyes. That's...Bad Cop's voice._

Are you there?

Answer me, please.

_What can he do? He goes towards the voice._

* * *

???.

_He's cold. He's so cold._

_There's someone pulling him out of the water, off of the ice, onto the shore, and then he's coughing up water and his head is spinning and he can't see straight. He hacks up ice-cold water, and there's a familiar warmth against his back, supporting him._

_He hasn't felt that warmth in years._

_"Are you okay?" Bad Cop asks._

_Quinn looks up at Bad Cop. He's soaking wet, and shivering despite how warm he feels._ "B?" _Quinn asks._

_Bad Cop smiles. "Yeah. I've been trying to get to you for ages. You're okay?"_

_Quinn pulls his knees to his chest and exhales. His breath doesn't mist._ "How are you here? Am I...am I dead?"

_Bad Cop's brow furrows. "What? Why would you think that?"_

_It's such a dumb question that Quinn can't help but smile._ "Because _you're_ dead," _he says, leaning his weight against Bad Cop. He's warm, so warm, and Quinn feels_ whole _again, like he hasn't in over two and a half years._ "B, I...I missed you so much. It's been so hard without you, and I'm so tired, I just..." _He blinks, and swipes away tears from his eyes._

_"Quinn," Bad Cop says. "Quinn. You're not dead."_

_Quinn looks up at Bad Cop._ "What do you mean I'm not dead? I got tortured by Business, I breathed in cyanide, I went in the _Think Tank._ People don't come back from that."

_Bad Cop gives Quinn a pained look. "Don't say that, Quinn. Please."_

_Bad Cop's warmth gets stronger, hotter until Quinn has to pull away from the heat. He looks at Bad Cop properly, from top to bottom. He's dressed in his work uniform, black jacket and pants. He's not wearing his glasses. He looks normal, but_ not. _His hair's not quite long enough, his skin isn't quite dark enough, and there's something about his expression that--_

_He said Quinn. Bad Cop shouldn't know that name._

"You're not Bad Cop," _Quinn says, slowly backing away._ "Who are you?"

 _Bad Cop, or whoever it is, holds up his hands. "Quinn, no, it_ is _me, it's Rowan. You know me. We had the tree out front and I broke my finger falling out of it. I blamed you, but it was really my fault because I didn't listen when you said the branch was about to break. I've been going to your bakery almost every week for the last five months for coffee and croissants. I learned_ sign language _so I could talk to you."_

 _Quinn steps back. This_ isn't _his Bad Cop. He's this time's Bad Cop, and--_ "That's not possible. You can't be here."

_Bad Cop runs a hand through his hair. "I know, it's hard to explain, but your friend helped me--"_

"That's not what I _meant," Quinn snaps._ "You--There's no way you'd _want_ to come after me."

_"Quinn, what are you on about? Of course I'd come after you."_

"You _want me gone!"_

_There's a very long silence._

_Bad Cop is at a loss for words. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, then clenches his fists. "How--how could you--"_

"You told me I wasn't your brother," _Quinn bites back._ "And that I never would be."

_"I...I'm sorry," Bad Cop says. "I didn't mean that. I didn't know it would hurt you."_

"Of _course_ you knew it would hurt me, that's why you _said_ it. If you really cared, you wouldn't have said it in the first place," Quinn retorts. "I've already given everything I could to save you, B, so just leave me alone. Don't come asking for more."

_"And let you die?"_

"Yes!" _Quinn shouts._ "I'm dying, I'm tired, and you don't even _want_ me around, so just let me go, B."

 _"I..." Bad Cop says. "G, I'm sorry you had to go through everything you went through. I'm sorry I hurt you. But...I_ do _want you around. I've never wanted you to leave."_

"You sent patrols out to capture me and didn't even _try_ to warn me," _Quinn says._ "I almost got captured the _day_ I got back from Bricksburg."

_"What? That's--I didn't send those patrols out. Even I can't cover up that you destroyed an entire building, and the second Business found out about it, he took over the search. I didn't even know he sent the robots out," Bad Cop says. "If I could have warned you, I would have."_

_That's not what Good Cop said, Quinn doesn't say._

_"I don't know how to get you to believe me, G, but I never wanted you to leave. You're the most important person in my life," Bad Cop says. "You always have been."_

Quinn wants to believe that. He really, really does.

"You _suppressed_ me for almost four _years," Quinn says._ "They were the last years of your _life_ and you couldn't even let me be there. I can barely remember anything from the last year, B. I didn't even know what you'd done until a few months after you died. If I hadn't told your Good Cop about what you were doing, you would have done the same thing to him."

_"Quinn, no, you don't understand," Bad Cop says._

_Quinn sighs._ "Then explain it to me, B. Why would you do that to me?"

_Bad Cop grimaces. "It's...it's not that easy, G."_

_Quinn takes a seat and gestures for Bad Cop to do the same._ "You stole over a year of my life from me, B. You want to explain? Then explain. I'm here. I'm listening. Tell me what you want to say, or get out of my head."

_Bad Cop gives him a long look, then sits. He takes a deep breath that crystallizes into a white cloud of mist. "Okay," he says. "Okay. I'll explain."_

* * *

???.

_They sit in silence for a long time while Bad Cop looks at his hands and thinks. They sit long enough that the snow all around Bad Cop melts, and the cold doesn't sting Quinn's skin anymore._

_"Do...do you remember when we were younger, and we got attacked by another student after school? We were, what, seventeen?"_

"Sixteen," _Quinn says._ "I seem to recall you telling me that I wasn't your brother right before you called me a murderer and said that you never wanted to speak to me again."

_Bad Cop squeezes his eyes closed, takes a deep breath, then says, "Yes. I did say that. I don't know if I ever told you how sorry I was."_

"You didn't," _Quinn says softly._

_Bad Cop looks down and exhales heavily. "I'm sorry, G. I never should have said that to you. I always regretted it."_

_Quinn clasps his hands._

_"After that happened, and I told you to--I told you to leave, you went quiet. I remember I was...happy, I guess. At first, anyways. I was angry, because you--you almost killed someone and you didn't even_ care. _And you said that you'd do it, you didn't even think about it." Bad Cop looks back up at Quinn. "I didn't want to think about the fact that you...you'd do that."_

"I'm not as good as you always say I am, B."

 _"I know," Bad Cop says. "I know. You've always been...bad about certain things. And I've been..." His gaze slides to the side and he grimaces. "I've been scared for a long time. About you, or of you, and what you'd do. You hurt people, G, and you don't even_ care. _I can't make you care. I can't teach you to feel sorry._

 _"You said that you'd kill someone to protect me and that scared me. I didn't want that. I didn't want you to be able to do what you did, and take control of my hands, and_ murder _someone. So I told you to leave, and you did."_

_Quinn remembers. He couldn't leave, not the way Bad Cop wanted him to, but he remembers the water, and silence filling his lungs and his mind until there was nothing left._

_"G, that was the worst month of my life. You weren't there, and I kept...trying to talk to you, and there was nothing. It was so quiet, all the time, and I couldn't stand it. I stayed up at night, just begging for you to come back, and you didn't."_

"I couldn't hear you," _Quinn says._

 _"I went after you. I thought you_ had _to be there, somewhere. I almost gave Ma and Pa a heart attack because they couldn't wake me all day. And...I found you, eventually, but you...still couldn't hear me. You wouldn't wake up, wouldn't respond to anything I said. And I, I don't know, I talked to you? I think I was crying, for most of it, saying I was so sorry, and that I'd do anything if you came back, and that I'd never let it happen again." He clenches his fists in his lap. "I thought you were_ dead, _G."_

"I'm sorry."

 _Bad Cop continues, "I kept talking to you afterwards, just hoping you would respond, and eventually you did. It wasn't much, all you said was my name, but it meant that you were still_ alive.

_"I don't know if you remember any of that, because you weren't really...conscious at the time. But I asked you why you did it, and all you would say was that you didn't want me to get hurt."_

_Bad Cop lets out another long breath. It mists into a white cloud, then dissipates. "You remember I used to cry a lot, don't you? And I always picked fights with people bigger and stronger than me and got hurt. I was...lousy, back then. And I thought that if I wasn't so weak, you wouldn't have done what you did._

_"I...wanted to be stronger. So I could protect myself, and so you wouldn't have to. And somewhere along the line, that turned into protecting you, too," Bad Cop said. "Not because you needed it, but because I was scared of what you might do."_

_Quinn looks at Bad Cop. Bad Cop's looks so small now, huddled close on the damp grass and shivering in the cold. His face looks drawn, tired. He may be allowed here, in Quinn's mind, but that doesn't mean he can_ stay. _Not for long._

"You still haven't answered the question," _Quinn says._ "Why did you suppress me?"

_Bad Cop clenches his fists in his lap. "...Three years ago, we tried to capture a lot of Master Builders and they all got away. Business was angry, and punished us...harshly."_

_Quinn's mouth twists downwards. That's an event he tries very hard not to remember._ "That was a bad month."

_Bad Cop bows his head slightly in assent. "I know it wasn't the first time he tried to get rid of you, but that time...he did it, and it was like we were kids, all over again. I couldn't hear you, I couldn't feel you at all. I thought--I thought he really killed you, and I..." He puts a hand to his brow and takes a deep breath. "I didn't know what to do, G."_

_Quinn doesn't respond. He remembers falling in darkness, and Bad Cop's voice, filtering down in broken bits and pieces. He remembers crying out for Bad Cop, crying out for help, for someone to take him back._

_The month after that was...hazy. Painful. Bad Cop didn't talk to him much then, or maybe Quinn just couldn't hear it. There's no way to be sure._

_"When you came back, I was terrified," Bad Cop says. "That Business would do it again, and it would stick. So I...I did whatever I could to try and keep Business happy. I did what he told me to. I stopped arguing. I thought the less he saw of you, the less he'd try to hurt you. And...you know what happened after that._

_"G, I did a lot of things I'm not proud of. I hurt people. I hurt_ so many _people. They begged me to help them, and to stop all of this with Business, and I never did. I ignored them, and that's my fault. I...I didn't want you to see that."_

 _Bad Cop grits his teeth and wipes his eyes. "I thought...I thought that once we got through everything, it would be better. When everything was over. And I knew that you'd hate me for what I did to you, but at least you'd be_ alive, _G. That's all I wanted."_

 _So that's what it was, in the end. It doesn't really make Quinn feel better--the blanks in his memory are there forever, and his last memories of his brother will always be tainted with betrayal--but at least now he knows._ "Thank you, Rowan," _Quinn says, reaching up to wipe Bad Cop's face. Bad Cop's skin feels like an open flame, and his tears freeze when Quinn touches them._ "Thank you for telling me." _He gets to his feet and pulls Bad Cop up._ "You should go. I know you can't stay here that long, and I don't want you to get hurt."

_"Come back with me, G," Bad Cop pleads. "Wake up."_

"I went through a lot, Rowan. I don't think it's as easy as just waking up," _Quinn says._ "And I'm not sure if I want to."

_Bad Cop reaches for Quinn, but his body's already dissolving into glass dust, blowing away in the wind. "Then I'll come back," he says. "Just wait for me."_

_Quinn smiles softly._ "I will."

* * *

???.

_Quinn stands in the center of his frozen lake. The air is still, and the ice is a sheer plane of solid white, lightly dusted with snow. The sky is a cloudless soft grey, and it stretches out into infinity._

_He breathes deeply, and wonders how long he'll be stuck here in this frozen landscape._

_He hears footsteps behind him, and turns. It's Rowan, out of work clothes this time._

"Rowan. You came back," _he says._

_"I said I would," Rowan says. "I'm not giving up."_

"Well, you always were stubborn," _Quinn replies. He starts walking._

 _Rowan follows him. "G, why won't you come back? You--you traveled back in time, you saved the world, you saved_ me, _G. You came back to do all that and you're just going to_ die _now that you're done?"_

 _Quinn doesn't answer right away._ "I didn't," _he says._ "Go back in time to do all that, I mean. I never meant to travel in time, and the thought never would have occurred to me. You were dead for two years, and as far as I was concerned, you were dead forever. The time travel was an accident."

_"What?"_

_Quinn turns to face Rowan._ "There was no plan, Rowan. I didn't have any noble intentions or ideas of some horrible future I had to prevent. I got punched by a wizard and happened to land three years in the past. It was all an accident."

_"Okay," Rowan says, holding his hands wide. "So it was accident. You still saved me, and the world. You don't think you deserve to live after all that?"_

"Rowan, this isn't about me," _Quinn says._ "I was never meant to be in this time or place. People have gotten hurt by me just _existing_ here. I've already hurt so many people, just to save you, and you want me to go back?"

_"It's over, though. Business is gone, Octan's gone, the Kragle is finished. You don't have to hurt people anymore," Rowan insists._

"It's _not_ over. It's not over because _I hurt people,_ Rowan. You _know_ I hurt people, I can't help it! I'm selfish and cruel, I'm a coward and a liar, I'm manipulative and I don't _care_ about people. I don't care about anyone except you, and you're safe now," _Quinn says._ "I did everything I needed to. Going back now would just be selfish, and I don't want to be that anymore."

 _"G, don't say that, please," Rowan says. "You're better than you know. You're kind, and gentle, and_ so brave. _I know you must have been terrified to go back to Business. I know you didn't want to go into the Think Tank, but you did because you_ are _good."_

 _Quinn sighs._ "It's not that simple. It's not...it's not easy for me to do the right thing, not like it is for you. I don't want to hurt people, but then I _want_ things and suddenly nobody else matters anymore. I have to keep myself in check constantly, to not do the absolute worst things, and even then, sometimes I lose. I'm tired, Rowan. I'm tired of having to be my own worst enemy."

_"You don't have to take that alone," Rowan says. "I'm here, and I--"_

"You died _two and a half years ago,_ Rowan," _Quinn snaps._ "Two and a half years, you _left_ me alone, and I've been trying to figure out how to do the right thing without you to guide me. I've been trying to be a better person without even knowing what that _means._ So don't tell me you'll always be here, because you aren't anymore. There's nothing here but darkness, and every day I feel that and remember you're gone."

 _Rowan grimaces and takes a deep breath. "G, I'm sorry I couldn't be there. But you, I don't know how to make you believe me, but you_ are _a good person. I know you've done bad things, but_ everyone _does. I've done so many bad things, but that doesn't mean we can't be better in the future."_

"I killed Ma and Pa."

_Silence fills the air._

_"What?" Rowan chokes out._

"Business told me to Kragle them, and I did. I looked them in the eyes and murdered them," _Quinn says._ "So don't tell me I'm good, or that I only do good things, because we both know that's a lie."

_"No, you're lying. You'd never do that."_

"Do you really think that? Do you really think I couldn't kill Ma and Pa?" _Quinn asks._

_Rowan doesn't respond._

"That's what I thought. Just go, Rowan. You shouldn't even be here. Leave me alone."

_"G, no--"_

_Quinn plants his hand firmly against Rowan's chest, and it feels like touching a hot stove._ "Goodbye, Rowan."

_He pushes, and Rowan disintegrates into nothing._

* * *

???.

_The ice is melting. Quinn can feel it getting warmer, can see the cracks stretch across the thinning ice. He's not sure how long it will take for the ice to break, but when it does, he'll go down into the water again._

_This time, he won't come back._

_He's ready. His time has come, and he'll embrace it with open arms. He looks down through the ice and sees nothing but darkness in the water below. That's where everything ends._

_He's ready to see his Rowan again._

_"G."_

_Quinn looks up towards the sound, and it's Rowan. It's always Rowan._

"I thought I told you to leave," _Quinn says._

_"Well, I'm stubborn," Rowan responds. He sits down next to Quinn. "I don't think you have a lot of time."_

"I don't," _Quinn agrees._

_"Come back with me," Rowan says. "Everyone's waiting for you. Me, Ma and Pa, your Master Builder friends, even your fake nephew. We all want you to wake up."_

_Quinn draws his fingers across the ice beside him. It feels warm to the touch and it cracks slightly as he brushes its surface._

"I can't," _he says eventually._

_"Why not?"_

"Because I'm _tired,_ Rowan," _Quinn says._ "Because I've lost so much of myself that there's nothing worth going back for."

_"G, no--"_

"Rowan, when I went back in time, I lost everything. I lost my friends, my parents, my home, my job, even my identity. I kept going because I had to save you, no matter what. Even if it wouldn't change anything for me, I had to make sure _you_ lived.

"The past seven months have been hard for me, Rowan. I got sick, I lost my voice, I had to fight _you._ I've been living with a target on my back. I couldn't even show my _face_ in case someone recognized me. I've been scared for so long, so _alone,_ all so I could do what I had to do, but I'm done now. I'm tired of it all, and I just want to rest."

_"You had me," Rowan says. "You could have talked to me. I would have helped."_

"Would you?" _Quinn asks._ "Because I told you who I was and you told me that I wasn't your brother. I tried to tell Good Cop that you were suppressing him, and you _threw me to the ground._ I couldn't even go after you because I had a coughing attack. Even when I was _being tortured_ by Business, you yelled at me and said I was _useless._

"It's always been like this, Rowan. I'm always walking on eggshells around you because I never know what will set you off. I know you hate that I'm always keeping secrets, but _I'm_ always scared of what might upset you. Rowan, I love you. I love you more than anyone, but you keep hurting me because you _can't control yourself,_ and I can't go back to that. Because the next time you tell me to leave, I _will,_ and I don't want to lose you again."

_"And dying is so much better?" Rowan asks._

"I've done nothing but stand up just to get knocked down again, over and over," _Quinn says._ "Is it really so bad to want to stay down? I got tortured by Business, Rowan. I got gassed with cyanide. I can't even communicate without my hands. It'll take me months to recover from all of that, if I even can. What's the point?"

_"I need you, G."_

"You've already got a Good Cop," _Quinn says._ "You don't need a second one. Especially not someone that's as broken down as I am."

 _Rowan puts his hand on Quinn's, and it's so hot that it's painful. "That's not true, G-- Quinn. I need_ you. _You're the one who saved me. You're so strong, you're so much stronger than I am, and I need you. I don't want you to die."_

 _Quinn pulls his hand back, and it feels hot to the touch._ "Rowan, just look around my mind. There's nothing here but ice and water. Even you can't stay here long without freezing. You don't want this."

_Rowan looks down through the ice, then at Quinn, and his expression is so incredibly exhausted. "This is the lake by our house. In the winter. I thought you hated this place."_

"I do."

_"Then why are we here?"_

_Quinn sighs._ "I drowned in this lake, a long time ago. Before you were you and I was me. I fell through the thin ice.

"I remember sinking down and not even being able to move because the water had soaked all my clothes, and choking on freezing water. I tried to call out for help, but there wasn't any and I blacked out. I woke up two days later in the hospital."

_"So when you said there were monsters under the lake..."_

"I sometimes wonder if part of me got left down there, frozen and sunk down to the bottom. I hate this lake, but I just can't escape from it, even now." _Quinn chuckles humorlessly._ "I'm sorry I never told you about it. You didn't remember it, and I wanted to spare you at least that much."

_"I'm sorry, Quinn," Rowan says._

"It's okay. It was a long time ago." _Quinn looks down into the ice and the growing cracks._ "When it gets warm enough that the ice breaks, I'll fall through and finish the job. You should go back, Rowan. Before you get caught up in it, too."

_Rowan reaches out to put a hand on Quinn's shoulder, and it feels like a branding iron. "It's not getting warmer," Rowan says. "You're getting colder."_

_Quinn looks up at Rowan._ "What?"

_Rowan lifts his hand and it's slightly blueish-white from frostbite. "You're freezing, Quinn. There's not much time left." He clasps his hands, then takes a deep breath. "I'm so sorry about everything you had to go through. I really am. You shouldn't have had to go through all that, and make the choices you did, and I know you're tired and you don't know if everything is worth it._

_"Quinn, I love you. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you needed it the most. I hurt you, and I'm sorry. I can...I want to change, and be better for you. We can work these things out together, but I need you to come back first."_

_Quinn sighs, but doesn't answer._

_Rowan looks him in the eyes. "Do you_ really _want to die?"_

 _Quinn traces the cracks out in the ice with his gaze and thinks. He's so tired of everything, he's exhausted, but even now, despite everything, there's still so many things he_ wants.

_He thinks of the city lights and people in the streets. He thinks of sitting on the balcony of his apartment, safe and warm with a cup of hot cocoa. He thinks of Ma and Pa, waiting for him. He thinks of Rowan, coming after him even now when he's this far gone._

"I..." _he says, because in the end, 'wanting to die' was never the problem._ "I don't know if I can live, either."

_"That's okay," Rowan says. "Living is hard, I know it is, but I can help show you back."_

_And then, in one short movement, Rowan pulls Quinn by the arm into a hug that feels like a live furnace._

_Rowan squeezes him tightly, and Quinn feels like he's falling, falling back to times when things were better. It's Rowan, it's the warmth he's missed for so long, and Quinn wraps his arms around Rowan's torso like it's the only thing tethering him to life, and sobs into his chest._

_"Come back, Quinn," Rowan says. "Come back with me. I know things are hard, but we can get through them together. It'll be okay."_

_Quinn wipes his eyes on Rowan's shoulder, and says,_ "Okay."

_Rowan lets out a sigh of relief. "Thank you. Thank you, Quinn."_

_Quinn closes his eyes and squeezes Rowan tightly._

_He's finally, finally going home._

* * *

99.

_Beep. Beep._

Quinn slowly surfaces from unconsciousness to the sound of a heart monitor.

_Beep. Beep._

A hospital? Why is he here? The last thing he remembers is...

It comes crashing back at once. Business, the Piece of Resistance, the Think Tank.

He's alive. After everything he went through, he's somehow still alive. It must be some kind of miracle.

_Beep. Beep._

He opens his eyes. The hospital room is dimly lit from a small lamp, and empty except for the blurry sillhouette of a person reading in the chair next to his bed. It's quiet except for the beeping of his heart monitor.

"Quinn," his younger self says. "You're back."

Quinn tries to sit up, and Good Cop carefully helps Quinn into a slightly more upright position. "Be careful," he says. "You've been comatose for over a week. Here, let me get you some water."

Good Cop pours some water into a pink tumbler, then lifts it to Quinn's mouth to drink. It's lukewarm, and most of it doesn't get into Quinn's mouth. Good Cop sets the tumbler down.

"You should rest. You've been through a lot," he says. "Get some sleep. I'll let everyone know you're back. They'll be here when you wake up."

Quinn nods and shifts his weight so he can lay down again. Even that much feels like a monumental effort.

"And Quinn?" Good Cop says. "I know you didn't have to come back. I would have understood if you didn't."

Quinn gives him a questioning look.

Good Cop smiles. "I'm glad you chose to live. Welcome back, Quinn."


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the end, life goes on.

100.

The second time Quinn wakes up, the room is filled with sunlight and people.

"Quinn! You're awake!" Pa says.

Ma smiles at him and holds his good hand. "We've been so worried, dear. We're glad you're awake."

Quinn smiles back at her, then looks around. There's Ma and Pa and Rowan on one side, and Benny, Princess Unikitty, Emmet, and some other people Quinn doesn't recognize on the other.

He tries to sit up, and Rowan helps him upright, careful not to jostle Quinn's bad arm. There's a short round of introductions, and Quinn finally takes stock of his injuries.

His arm and hand are in a cast, and he can feel a lot of gauze and bandages over his torso, arms, and back. There's bandages all down the side of his face where Business had poured acid, and there's a patch over his eye, which implies some things he'd rather not think about right now. He probably looks like a mummy under his hospital gown.

Everything aches, but in a bone-deep, dulled way characteristic of painkillers that's bearable, if nothing else. He opens his mouth to ask what happened, but nothing comes out.

Ah. He'd forgotten about that.

Rowan sets a tablet on Quinn's lap, then hands him a stylus. Quinn opens the text app and slowly types out his question.

//what happened?//

Ma looks at Rowan, and Rowan looks at Benny. Benny's eyes widen in panic. "Uh...me? I...I don't know that much, do I?"

"You were there the whole time," Rowan says. "Nobody else was."

Benny makes a quick glance towards the window like he's ready to sprint for it just to get out of talking. "Um, okay," he says. "Well, it kind of went something like this..."

The story, in fewer words, goes thus:

Lucy, with the Piece of Resistance and a few Master Builders including Benny, Unikitty, and Vitruvius went with Good Cop to the tower while Business was busy with Quinn. They found the Kragle after about three hours of hacking into computers, searching impractically large rooms, and a non-trivial amount of punching robots, then put the Piece of Resistance on it, neutralizing it forever and saving the world.

"Then there was some huge explosion and the whole tower started shaking," Benny says. "So we booked it out of there. Bad Cop took us down to the, um. The interrogation chamber, and it looked...it looked pretty bad. It kind of looked like a horror movie in there, there was blood everywhere and--"

Quinn makes a somewhat impatient hand gesture.

"Oh yeah, actually, why am I telling you this? You already, uh, know about that part," Benny says, nervously playing with his collar. "Well, you weren't in the room when we got there, right? But there was this wicked long blood streak going out of the interrogation room, and we followed it down to the Think Tank.

"So by this time, the shaking's super bad and the tower's kind of falling apart, yeah? We go down and there's just...a ton of people in the hallways, all Master Builders trying to get the heck out of the building and they don't know how because Octan's about as easy to get around as a maze made of spaghetti. Well, Good Cop showed us how to find our way around on the way in, so we decide to split up so Bad Cop and Wyldstyle and me went to find you and everyone else helped the Master Builders get out. We got there and everything was, like, exploding. You, um, it was..."

Rowan looks down at his clasped hands. "It was bad," he says. "You looked like you'd been run through a thresher, and we couldn't get you out of the pod. Benny had to make a crowbar so we could get that thing off of your head." 

"It was pretty freaky, actually," Benny says. "Like your eyes were open, but you weren't responding and you were all cold and stuff. Wyldstyle did some first aid and put you on oxygen from my tank and we got out of there as fast as we could. We flew you to the hospital, and, um, now you're here." He shrugs. "So that's the story."

//what happened to business?//

"Vitruvius got him out a little while later," Benny says. "You know, when the tower had stopped exploding. He was still breathing, a bit, but he didn't look so great. We brought him to the hospital and they said it was smoke inhalation, which didn't really make sense, but none of us really wanted to say anything. The official story is that he got caught up in the fire."

//what fire?//

"Uh," Benny leans in and dips his voice. "Good Cop torched one of the rooms while we were looking for the Kragle. It was like this really big white room with stuff on pedestals, and he set the whole thing on fire because...I'm really not sure, actually." He clears his throat and sits up again. "Anyways, Business hasn't woken up. We're not sure if he will."

Quinn nods and fiddles around a bit with his stylus. He doesn't really care what happens to Business at this point. The Kragle's been taken care of, and Business can't hurt Rowan ever again.

"Um, Quinn?" Benny says.

Quinn looks up at Benny.

"Uh. Thanks. For doing what you did. When Wyldstyle told us you were going to distract Business, I don't think any of us realized you meant..." He makes a vague gesture to Quinn's body. "You...really didn't have to do that, and it probably really, really sucked. Thanks to you, we were able to stop the Kragle and everything. But also, like, please never do that again. I don't think anyone wants to see you in the hospital like this again, man."

Quinn huffs. He's got no intentions of going through this again. Once was enough.

"Right, and uh, because this wasn't super clear, I just wanted to make sure. You're Bad Cop's _brother,_ yeah?" 

Quinn nods, then types, //four years older. he's the youngest.//

Rowan looks down, blushing furiously, and Quinn reaches over to gently flick his nose.

"Hey!" Rowan says. "Stop that!"

Pa reaches over and pats Quinn on the shoulder. "You did it, son. We're very proud of you, now. Once you're better, we'll be having a great dinner, with the whole family all together. But for now, you've got to rest."

Ma gives him a kiss on the forehead and says, "We love you very much, dear. So get some rest, and listen to the doctors. We can't wait until you can visit us at home again."

There's more kisses and hugs exchanged, and small conversation until the day wears on and people leave, one by one until Rowan's the only one left.

Rowan clears his throat. "I've got some errands to run, but..." He digs in his pocket, then pulls out Quinn's glasses and holds them out. "You might want these back."

Quinn takes them--they've been recently cleaned--and puts them on. _{Thank you,}_ he signs. _{I love you.}_

Rowan blushes tomato-red, all the way from his cheeks down his neck and past his collar. _{I love you, too,}_ he signs back, and with a flustered sound, he leaves the hospital room.

Quinn smiles to himself. Living won't be easy, but he thinks it might just be worth it.

* * *

101.

Rowan visits again early the next day.

"Hey," he says as he takes a seat next to Quinn. "How are you feeling today?"

Quinn shrugs. Everything hurts, but that's standard at this point. He's not sure what else there is to say.

"I talked to the doctor, and you're going to need physical therapy after you get out. In general and for your arm."

Quinn nods. He had been told as much yesterday.

"I also talked to your friend," Rowan continues. "The one from the bakery. They're in Middle Zealand with their family for now. They were glad to know you were okay and, open quote, 'hadn't done anything too stupid', end quote. I didn't feel the need to correct them."

Quinn rolls his eyes, but lets the comment slide. The important thing is, Jean is doing fine despite Business bombing their bakery. He'll have to find them and apologize properly sometime, not to mention thank them for everything they've done.

Rowan shifts a bit in his seat and clasps his hands. "I...I asked some Master Builders about time travel. And about your situation. If there's some way to go back."

Quinn looks at him. Between everything with the resistance and getting sick and just trying to stay afloat, it's been a long time since he's even thought about figuring some way to get _back._

"It's...impossible," Rowan says. "It's not possible to travel into a future of an alternate timeline. If you tried, you would probably just land in the past again. All those things you lost, they're gone forever. I'm sorry."

With a sigh, Quinn nods. He's not exactly surprised, but it still hurts. His friendships with Emmet and his Master Builder crew, however tenuous they were, his home, his parents, it's all gone. He has to start over. 

Rowan scratches the back of his neck nervously. "I...I talked to Ciaran yesterday. About some of the things we talked about when you were..." He trails off awkwardly. "He said a lot of the same things you did. For...obvious reasons.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize I was upsetting you, and I don't want to do that. I'm going to try and be better about my...anger. And be more careful about what I say."

 _{Thank you,}_ Quinn signs.

"Quinn, I don't just want to be better for Ciaran, I want to be better for you. You're my brother, too. And nothing will ever change that.

"But you have to work with me, Quinn. You can't keep hiding things from me, or this won't work between us. You can't be...going behind my back to get tortured. I trust you, but that kind of thing is going to get both of us hurt."

Quinn looks down with a grimace. Rowan's right, of course he is, but Quinn has never been very good at being open about things. Not when he doesn't know what people might do with information, things that he can't keep track of.

"Please, Quinn. Can you at least try?" Rowan says.

Quinn sighs. He picks up the tablet from his end table and unlocks it.

//I really did kill ma and pa,// he types. //business was upset because the special escaped and he showed us the kragle. he used it on ma and pa, then told you to finish them off. you couldn't do it, so business killed you, and the last thing you ever said to me was that you were sorry.//

"Quinn..."

//I killed them. I used the kragle on them, because I thought that business would do even worse things to them if I didn't, but mostly because I was scared of what business would do to me. they got better, eventually. there's an antidote for the kragle, but I didn't know that, and neither did they. they forgave me, but I don't think they ever looked at me the same way after that.//

Rowan clasps his hands together. "...I'm sorry."

//these are the kinds of things that happened, rowan. honestly, there's a lot of things I try not to remember, and I don't think you'll like most of it. I know I'm bad about secrets, but I trust you and you deserve to know, so I'll try my best.//

Rowan sets a hand on Quinn's shoulder. "Thanks, Quinn. It means a lot."

//you said we we'd get through this together, right?// Quinn types. //we're a team. always.//

That gets a smile out of Rowan. "Of course. Always." He sits back in his chair and pours a glass of water. "What are you going to do when you're discharged? Any plans?"

Quinn shrugs. //I thought I'd be dead by now.//

Rowan makes a pained look and takes a drink of water.

//I'm trying to be honest.//

Shaking his head, Rowan says, "Believe me, I appreciate it." He sets the glass down. "I _meant_ to ask if you wanted to live with Ciaran and me. Back in Bricksburg. Since Business ruined your old place."

Quinn can hardly believe what Rowan is saying. Never, ever had he imagined he'd actually be able to have Rowan in his life again, have his brother _back_ after Business and everything else that happened. That's...that's too good to be true.

He pauses for a bit, then types, //Ciaran's okay with that?//

"Of course. Why wouldn't he be?" Rowan asks.

Quinn grimaces. That's not an easy thing to answer, because even _he_ isn't sure where he stands with Good Cop. Between everything they'd said to each other, everything they'd done, there's no way for him to tell where Good Cop's goodwill ended and the lies began.

That's one more thing he'll have to work out in the coming months.

//it's complicated,// he types.

"You don't have to stay if you'd rather not," Rowan says. "Ma and Pa would be happy to have you. Or you can start somewhere new. But if you want to stay with us, we'd be glad to clear the study for you. You can stay as long or short as you want. You don't have to decide now. Think about it, that's all."

//I want to be with you,// Quinn types. //you're the most important person to me. of course I'll live with you.//

Rowan smiles, a blush crossing his face. "Well, that settles that, then," he says. "Ciaran and I can move things around so everything's ready when you're discharged. Everything else we can figure out later."

Quinn grins and puts his tablet down so he can ruffle Rowan's hair.

"Quinn, no!" Rowan protests, even as he laughs.

Quinn gives Rowan a short pat, just for the novelty of being able to _be_ here and physically _touch_ Rowan.

He thinks that that alone might make starting over worth it.

* * *

102.

Later that day, when Quinn's alone and reading a truly impenetrable book about number theory that Rowan had brought as a joke, there's a knock at the door.

After a pause, the door opens and it's Lucy standing there.

"Hey," she says from the doorway. "I just wanted to, um, see if you were doing okay. I'll go if you want me to."

Quinn's not angry at her anymore, not the way he was before, but he hasn't quite forgiven her, either. What she did was a violation of his mind, regardless of what she saw or how she suffered afterwards. But on the other hand, he knows she's sorry and means it. And now that Rowan is safe, he's having a hard time being angry about anything.

He sighs and puts down his book, then motions for her to come in. She lets out a relieved breath, then comes in and sits down.

"Thanks," she says. "You didn't have to, and, um."

Quinn unlocks his tablet and types, //don't worry about that right now. how are you?//

"Me?" she asks. "You're the one who got all sliced up and burned by Business."

//you took the piece of resistance to the kragle. you saved the world, lucy.//

Lucy runs a hand through her hair with an awkward shrug and says, "I mean, sort of. I didn't really do that much. Everyone else helped find it and get through Business's security. I mostly just kicked robots and put the Piece on at the end. It's not so impressive when you say it like that."

//I also hear you saved my life multiple times. you learned first aid after what happened to benny?//

She blushes slightly. "Well, I had to, right? What if you weren't there to help the next time? And you weren't, so it's good I learned."

//it is. I'm proud of you. you were the one who let Bad Cop into my mind, too, weren't you?//

"Y-yeah. He needed someone to help him in because he's not a Master Builder, and I was the only one who had enough experience with your mind to do that without him getting hurt. Especially because your mind is...not fun." She plays a little bit with the hem of her hoodie, then says, "It took a lot of tries to even make contact. There were a lot of times when we thought we lost you."

//thank you.//

"No problem, Quinn," Lucy says softly. "It's just...after what you did, getting yourself tortured and stuff, I had to do everything I could."

//so how are you doing?// Quinn asks.

"I'm okay. I...haven't really gotten my Master Building abilities back. I think I have to do it the hard way, learning a lot of the stuff again, and Vitruvius is helping with that," Lucy says. "Is it, uh, true that you threw him out of a window?"

Wow, Quinn had actually completely forgotten about that. He should apologize at some point. He nods.

"Oh, well, he's doing fine. He seemed to think it was funny." Lucy scratches her head, then says, "Um, I actually came because there's a thing that's been bothering me for a long time, and I needed to ask you about it."

That's surprising. Quinn gestures for her to go on.

"Right, so," Lucy says, "I've just been...um. I'm not sure how to say this, but since I met you, you've been...nice to me. And you talk to me, and you care about the stuff I do, and you treat me like I actually know what I'm doing. Which I do, most of the time. And, uh." She laughs nervously. "This is kind of embarrassing."

Quinn waits patiently for her to continue.

"Quinn, are you my dad?"

Quinn blinks. That was _not_ the follow-up he had expected.

"I thought about it a lot, okay?" Lucy says. "Like you've got black hair and black eyes, just like me, and you know my real name and you keep using it. Except like, when you use my name it actually sounds like my name and not boring and awful. And you're also, like, really nice to me...most of the time. You actually want to spend time with me, and...you know. It makes sense."

Quinn looks at Lucy. He doesn't know much about her past except that she ran away from home at some point before becoming a Master Builder. Right now, she looks borderline hopeful, and that breaks his heart, just a bit. He sighs.

//I'm not your father. as far as I'm aware, I'm not related to you at all. I'm sorry.//

Lucy's face falls, but she recomposes herself. "No, it's okay. I just thought that maybe..." She trails off, then forces a smile and says, "At least this doesn't mean I'm related to Bad Cop, which is kind of a relief. I mean, I know he's okay now, but after everything, that would still be awkward, and--" She cuts herself off to sniff and wipe her eyes.

Quinn leans over to pull a tissue from the end table and give it to her. She takes it and blows her nose.

"Geez, and even now you're being nice to me," Lucy says shakily. She looks up at Quinn and says, "I...that was the real reason why I kept digging when I went in your mindscape. I wasn't actually trying to find out about the Piece of Resistance or anything, that was all an accident. I just wanted to know if you were really my dad or not, and I was mad because you never told me if you were, and...I'm sorry. I know it's dumb, I shouldn't have done what I did."

//I agree that you shouldn't have gone into my mind, but there's nothing silly about wanting to know if someone might be connected to you,// Quinn writes. //but next time, please ask, lucy. no more of this breaking and entering, please.//

"Sorry," Lucy says. "I'll try not to...do that anymore."

//unfortunately, I don't know anything about your family. but I'm still willing to talk and help you if you need it. even if I'm not actually your father.//

Lucy wipes her eyes with the heel of her palm, then asks, "Really? Even after what I did?"

//I haven't really forgiven you, but I know you're sorry and you won't do it again,// Quinn types. //After everything else, I think I'm willing to try moving past it.//

"I...thanks, Quinn. I don't know if I ever told you, but you really are a good guy. I know you were mostly doing it to help Bad Cop, but you really...saved our butts with this. We couldn't have done it without you."

Quinn gives her a pat on the shoulder. //everyone helped.//

"Yeah," Lucy says. "No Special, just a bunch of scared people who want to make things better, right?"

Quinn huffs in amusement. //yeah.//

"It's...it's funny, because we've done everything and saved the world, but I'm still scared, you know? I don't know what's going to happen next, or if we'll be able to do what we have to when it happens. It's not like Business is the only bad guy out there."

//whatever happens, we'll figure it out when it comes. that's all we can do.//

The corner of Lucy's mouth tips up in a wry smile. "Yeah. I guess that's not so bad, then."

* * *

103.

Quinn gets discharged from the hospital.

He leaves, leaning against Rowan the whole way out. His legs feel like jelly, and it's mostly Rowan's arm around his back and the cane that he's got in a death grip that keeps him from collapsing.

"Careful," Rowan says. "Don't want you to break something and have to come back here."

Quinn elbows Rowan in the ribs.

Rowan pokes him back. "I'm worrying about your health, because based on your track record, you clearly won't."

Quinn rolls his eyes. It's not like he decides to not take medication and get tortured for _fun._ And it's not like mister-work-for-thirty-hours-straight-with-pneumonia has any room to talk.

They pass through the front lobby and out of the corner of his eye, Quinn spots a flash of orange vest. He looks over and Emmet's standing awkwardly in a corner staring at the directory holding a brown jar.

Quinn nudges Rowan.

"What?" Rowan asks. "Do you need something?"

Quinn gestures towards Emmet and Rowan looks over.

He makes a face and says, "All right. Let's see how your nephew is doing."

Rowan helps Quinn over to where Emmet is standing and clears his throat. Instantly, Emmet jumps about a foot into the air, screaming. He whirls around, flailing, and when he sees Quinn, he stops. There's an awkward silence, and Emmet puts his arms down. "Oh, hey! Sorry about that."

"Quinn wanted to talk," Rowan says. "I'll be over there when you're done." He helps Quinn to a nearby seat, then goes to do his own thing.

Emmet stares at Quinn for a while, and Quinn gestures for him to sit. Emmet sits.

"So, uh. Quinn!" Emmet says. "I haven't seen you in a while. You're looking great! The, uh, the bandages are pretty cool. And the eyepatch makes you look like a pirate!"

Quinn takes out his phone and types, //are you okay, emmet? i heard you got captured by business.//

"Captured? I mean, they had me hang out at Octan for a few days and wouldn't let me leave, but they brought me food and there were these cool robots, even if they were kind of mean sometimes."

//emmet, that's called imprisonment.//

"Oh," Emmet says. He looks down at the table for an awkward five seconds, then looks up again and says, "Well, I'm all okay now! They said they wanted me to stay there for a while because you were in trouble, and I mean, you're my favorite uncle, Quinn! I had to help! I'm not really sure why they thought me sitting in a dark room would help, though."

Quinn sighs. At least Emmet doesn't seem to have sustained any sort of lasting damage.

//well, I'm glad you're okay,// Quinn types.

"I, um, I meant to give you this," Emmet says, holding out the jar. "It's stew! I made it all by myself, just like you taught me. It's, um, cold now, and I don't know how you're going to eat it without a spoon, but I heard you were sick and soup's supposed to help when you're sick. That's what always works in the movies."

Quinn takes the jar. It is, in fact, a mason jar full of cold beef stew. The execution may be lacking, but at least the kid's heart is in the right place. //thank you, emmet. I'm sure it will be very tasty.//

Emmet grins. "So where are you going now that you're good enough to get out of the hospital? You could stay at my place again, Uncle Quinn, I've still got your stuff there and everything. I know you told me to get rid of it, but you didn't really mean that, I mean, what if you ever wanted to come hang out with me again?"

Quinn takes a deep breath. One day he's probably going to have to explain the concept of plausible deniability to Emmet, but today is not that day. Instead, he types, //emmet, I'm not actually your uncle.//

"What?" Emmet asks. "What do you mean?"

//I lied about being your uncle.//

Emmet frowns. "But why would you do that?"

//I needed a place to stay in the city so I could find the piece of resistance,// Quinn types. //I knew that you would believe me.//

Emmet looks down at the table. "So...so everything we did together was fake? Did you...did you just pretend to like me?"

//the only thing I lied about was being related to you.//

Emmet reads the text, then looks back up at Quinn, distressed. "But--but that means you... _really_ like me. Even though nobody else wants to hang out with me and I'm boring all the time and you're not actually related to me."

Quinn takes a deep breath, and not for the first time, he wonders what Emmet's life must have been like, before now.

It's not a pleasant thought.

//emmet, you are a wonderful person. you're not always the brightest, but you believe in the best in everyone and you always try your hardest to do the right thing and help people. of course I really like you.//

"But you're, you're not my uncle."

//I'm not. but that doesn't mean I don't care about you. just because we're not related doesn't mean we can't still be family.//

Emmet sniffs and blinks watery eyes. "R-really?"

Quinn sighs, puts his phone down, and scoots over to hug Emmet. It takes Emmet several seconds to realize what's going on, before he hugs Quinn back and awkwardly tries not to squish Quinn's bad arm.

"Thanks, Uncle Quinn, you're the best," Emmet says. "You're the best family I've ever had."

Quinn pats Emmet's back and tries to pretend that isn't one of the saddest things he's heard all day.

The hug goes on for about two minutes longer than necessary, before Quinn gently pries Emmet off and types, //we're going to have a family dinner tonight at my brother's apartment. you should join us.//

"Really? You mean I can have even _more_ family?" Emmet asks.

Quinn nods, then types, //if you show up early, you can help us cook, too.// He thinks about Lucy, then adds, //I might need to invite some other people, too.//

Emmet flings his arms around Quinn, and Quinn just pats his back.

* * *

"Is that a mason jar full of soup?" Rowan asks after Emmet goes.

Quinn shrugs. //I invited emmet and lucy to dinner tonight. I think you and ma and pa will like them.//

Rowan takes the jar and gives Quinn a _look._ "Are you _adopting children?"_ he asks. "I left you alone for fifteen minutes."

//they're wonderful people,// Quinn types. //and really, we all need a little more family, don't we?//

Rowan rolls his eyes and helps Quinn to his feet. "Come on, let's go home. You need rest."

Quinn smiles and puts his phone away, then gestures towards the door.

He's finally going home.

* * *

∞.

Quinn wakes up to sunlight and the sound of frying eggs.

He stretches, then makes his way out to the kitchen where Rowan is cooking breakfast.

"Morning, Quinn," he says. "I'm almost done. Can you get the plates?"

Quinn obliges, pausing to give Rowan a quick kiss on the cheek. Rowan turns bright red, just like he always does, but leans over to give Quinn a peck back. Quinn hands the plates to Rowan and sits at the table.

It's been three years since he got himself punched into the past by a wizard. Three years since he lost everything and had to take it all back, two and a half years since he stopped Business and started living with Rowan again, two years since he recovered from his injuries.

Not everything is better. He's got acid scars on his face and arms, an eye that can't see straight, a wrist and hand that are stiff no matter what he tries. He still can't talk, and his health will probably never be what it used to be. And if he closes his eyes and reaches back, he still will never be able to hear Rowan's voice in the back of his head again.

But he's here and now. Rowan's here and alive. His parents are safe, and the citizens of realms the world over are free from Business's tyrannical rule. He has a home with his brothers, he has a new job, and he's _safe._

Rowan sets the eggs and a plate of soybeans on the table, then goes to scoop out two bowls of rice. "I think you've got a lot of work coming up soon," he says as he hands a bowl to Quinn. "There's been a gang of wizards tearing through the robots lately. They're going to need repairs. I put in orders for new parts yesterday."

 _{Wizards?}_ Quinn asks.

Rowan nods. "They're a nuisance. Robbing people left and right. We can't get a hold of them. Ciaran thinks they might be using teleportation magic."

Quinn's brow furrows. _{I see,}_ he says. He doesn't like the sound of that at all, but it's nothing Rowan can't handle. He takes a bite of his breakfast, then signs, _{What are you doing tonight? Lucy wanted me to see how her new sculpture is going, and watch a movie with her downtown. She said you could come with.}_

"Oh, that," Rowan says. "Benny wants me to visit the observatory tonight. They're finally moving the telescope to the new location. It only took two years to get the paperwork through, so he's making an event of it."

Quinn smiles to himself. He remembers once thinking that Benny would get along with Rowan if they'd had the chance to meet under better circumstances than Rowan being _dead._ Now they spend every other weekend or so talking to each other about astrophysics and engineering mechanics, which is great because it gets Rowan out of the house and socializing, and because it proves that Quinn was 100% right the whole time.

"Wipe that smug look off your face," Rowan says. "It's just dinner. The place doesn't even have a dress code."

Quinn pours a spoonful of soybeans into Rowan's bowl. If Ciaran hasn't said anything, he won't either.

They talk over breakfast for a while longer. Rowan tells him more about the wizards case, which does nothing to stop Quinn's feelings of unease about it all. There's just something about wizards and robbing places that doesn't sit well in his mind.

Then Rowan's phone goes off and he takes the call while Quinn cleans up the dishes and thinks.

Wizards, robberies, and teleportation spells. Why does that make him so uncomfortable? Rowan's handled worse from worse, and it's not like getting hit by a wizard would--

Oh.

_Oh._

"Quinn?" comes Ciaran's voice from around the corner. "Something's bothering you. Are you okay?"

Quinn dries off his hands and signs, _{You remember how I got punched by a wizard three years into the past?}_

"That sounds just as ridiculous as the first time you said it, but yes, I do recall that," Ciaran says as he pulls on a sweater. "Did you remember something?"

 _{The wizard that punched me was part of a gang like the one you're dealing with now,}_ Quinn signs. _{So be careful.}_

Ciaran nods and zips up his jacket. "Don't worry, we'll take care of it."

He puts on Rowan's glasses, and Rowan says, "The boys down at the station just got intel on the leader of the group. Hopefully we'll take care of him by the end of today." He gives Quinn a hug, then says, "I love you. I'll see you later, okay?"

Quinn pulls back and straightens Rowan's jacket, then signs, _{Rowan, one thing.}_

"Yeah?"

_{If you fight the head wizard...stay out of arm's reach.}_

Rowan chuckles and nods. "I wasn't going to get close to begin with, but I'll be careful. You take care of yourself, okay?"

Rowan slings his bag over his shoulder, then heads out.

Quinn goes to get dressed himself. He's got another big day ahead of him.

Life is good.

**Author's Note:**

> And then they lived happily ever after.
> 
> We did it! We made it to the end. A big thank you to everyone who's made it this far, and if you enjoyed Runner, please consider giving kudos or leaving a comment and telling me what you thought!
> 
> Come find me on my [tumblr](http://jessepinwheel.tumblr.com/)!


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